The Mentalist: The Rocket's Red Glare
by Donnamour1969
Summary: Someone is trying to kill Jane (again). Even with Lisbon acting as his bodyguard, it won't stop Jane from doing something idiotic to catch his would-be killer. Set in Season 5. Rated T/M for language and adult content. Humor/Drama/Jisbon romance.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Yes, I know I'm still in the middle of my other fic, "Teresa" with waterbaby134. But this idea captured me and I felt compelled to write it and share it with you. It is set sometime in season 5, with minor spoilers from season 4 as well. It will mostly be comedy and romance, as indicated, with only minor angst and drama interspersed throughout.

Thanks for taking a chance on another of my stories. Or, if you're new to my writing, welcome!

**The Rocket's Red Glare**

**Chapter 1**

"Someone out there is trying to kill me," announced Jane to Lisbon. She was sitting at her desk in her CBI office, so intent on finishing her report that she didn't even look up at Jane's arrival in her doorway.

"Someone _in here_ is going to kill you if you don't let me finish this—"

"Lisbon," he interrupted softly. Something in his tone made her look up then. He appeared totally disheveled—even more so than usual—his jacket torn and dusty, a bleeding scrape across his cheek.

She got to her feet, her brows knit in concern. "What the hell happened to you?"

"I told you—"

"Someone's trying to kill you. I got that. Can you be a bit more specific?" She grabbed a tissue from her desk and went round to him, and before he knew what she was about, began dabbing at his cheek. He hissed in sudden pain and his hand came up to her wrist to stop her movements.

"Damn! That stings!"

"You're bleeding," she said, showing him the evidence on the tissue.

"Huh," he said in surprise, his hand gingerly touching his face. "It felt numb before you started touching it," he complained petulantly.

She actually spit into the tissue and was about to apply it to his injured cheek, but he cringed and backed up a few steps, hands up defensively. "Thank you, but I'll visit the men's room in a minute."

She hid her smile as she turned and tossed the offending tissue into the wastebasket. Her little brothers had always hated when she did that too. It usually made them man up fairly quickly, however.

"So," she said in faint amusement, "what makes you think someone is trying to kill you?"

"Someone tried to run me off the sidewalk on the way to the office just now."

"What?"

"Yeah. I was walking to work—"

"Why were you walking to work?" she interrupted.

"I'll tell you that part of the story in a minute," he replied in annoyance. His level of agitation and general loss of his usual good humor made her hesitate in teasing him further.

"Sorry," she said. "Go on."

"Anyway, a car came out of nowhere, swerving onto the sidewalk. It's a good thing I have the reflexes of a cat, for I was able to successfully jump out of the way to relative safety. I suppose I got this scrape when I first hit the sidewalk before I rolled into the grass and hid behind a tree. It happened so fast that when I got up, the car had already sped away with a squeal of its tires."

"Reflexes of a cat, eh?" She just couldn't let that one go by.

"Well, yes, Lisbon. Scoff all you like, but my ability to respond instinctively to danger likely saved my life this morning."

She smirked, but tried to nod in understanding, as she was trained to do with distraught witnesses.

"What kind of car was it?"

"A 1969 Mustang Shelby GT 500 Convertible, British racing green, with original wheels and gas cap."

She raised an eyebrow at that.

"What? I know my classic cars, Lisbon."

"Did you get a license plate number?"

"No," he said glumly. "It was already too far away when I got up."

"Maybe it was an accident," she reasoned, sitting on the edge of her desk. "And they were afraid of getting into trouble so they drove away."

He shrugged, then grabbed his shoulder in pain at the sudden movement.

"Why don't you sit down before you fall down," she suggested, inclining her head toward her couch. He complied, limping a little before he settled down slowly onto the overstuffed cushions. He let go a relieved sigh as he rested against the back of the couch.

"The driver seemed pretty intent on running into me," he said in answer to her hypothesis. "I don't think it was an accident."

"Did you see the driver?"

"No. The side windows were tinted and I never saw the car head on since it sideswiped me. But I'm betting it was a man by the masterful way he drove."

"Well, that's a very sexist thing to say."

The first hint of a smile returned to his lips. "It is what it is."

"We'll have Van Pelt run the type of car, see how many are registered within the area. Then we'll pull up any traffic cams to see if they caught anything on surveillance video. In the meantime, you should probably get to a doctor and get looked at. You might have broken or dislocated something."

"No thanks. I can _locate_ every ache and pain, believe me; I don't need a doctor to do it. I just need to rest. You got any aspirin? And a cup of tea would be nice."

She contemplated him a moment as he closed his eyes, his golden head resting against the white fabric of her couch. She hoped he didn't get blood on it from his cheek.

"You didn't tell me why you were walking to work in the first place."

"Oh, yeah," he said opening his eyes again. "I was nearly killed when my brakes went out yesterday. I couldn't stop at a stoplight—couldn't stop at all until I turned into a curb. Dented my right fender, tore up my tire. I had it towed to a repair shop. They're supposed to call me when they find out what happened to the brakes. Dollars to doughnuts someone cut them."

"Come on, Jane. That could easily be a coincidence. That car is so old and undependable, the brakes were probably due to go out anytime. You're lucky that damn thing hadn't gotten you killed long before now."

"The brakes were operating perfectly yesterday morning. I think I would have noticed if they were on their way to wearing out. No, someone is going to a lot of trouble to make my death look like an accident."

"Paranoid much?"

"No such thing as coincidences, Lisbon."

"Well, I suppose you might be right," she conceded. "I have a filing cabinet full of people who'd like to kill you. I mean, you were kidnapped once because of an old client, and since you've been working here, there are many perps in prison because of you. I wouldn't even know where to begin to figure out who might have it in for you today."

"Well, you sure know how to reassure a person," said Jane wryly.

"It is what it is," she said with a grin. "Tell you what. After Van Pelt does her thing, if we find out your brakes were tampered with, I'll assign you a bodyguard until we figure out who's doing this."

"Bodyguard? No thanks."

"Cho. You like Cho. He probably wouldn't mind psychic-sitting for a few days if you behave yourself."

He gave her a dirty look. "Cute. I'll take my chances."

"I wouldn't worry so much," she prompted.

He looked at her intently. "You're not worried. You're just placating me here. You just wait—"

Jane's cell phone rang and he reached for his inside pocket.

"Patrick Jane," he answered. "Yeah. Yeah. Oh, really? And how could that happen? Uh-huh. Yeah. Well, I certainly will be reporting that to the police. Thank you." He caught Lisbon's eye triumphantly, then continued: "Well, please don't fix anything until they get over there to check it out. Yeah. Thanks again. Bye."

He sat up and leaned forward. "What did I tell you? Believe me now?"

Her face now held the appropriate concern. "Okay, well, we'll stick to the plan. I want someone on you twenty-four seven."

He raised an eyebrow suggestively, and, much to her surprise, found herself blushing. "Cho it is. And that's an order. This could involve the CBI, so you'll take the protection and you'll like it."

"Yes, ma'am," he said, his full smile appearing before he could stop it, along with the pain it caused in his cheek.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Cho and Rigsby returned from the repair shop, having looked at Jane's brakes along with one of the CBI's mechanical experts. On her way back from the break room, coffee mug in hand, Lisbon saw the two men had returned, and she joined her team in the bullpen.

"The brake lines were definitely cut," reported Cho. "Somebody wants Jane dead."

"That's a long list to narrow," quipped Rigsby.

"Gee, thanks, guys," replied the injured party from his place on the couch.

His wound now dressed with a light bandage, a change of suit, aspirin, and two cups of tea later, Jane was ready to look at the situation more dispassionately. Someone was trying to kill him. He and Lisbon had filled everyone in on the events of the last two days, and Van Pelt was hard at work on her computer trying to find out what she could on the origins of the vehicle and possible video evidence.

"There are twenty such Mustangs in the Sacramento area; eighteen owned by men," announced Van Pelt from her desk.

Lisbon gave Jane a look of supreme annoyance, then instructed Van Pelt: "Don't listen to Jane on this one. It could have been a man _or _a woman. He didn't actually see the driver, after all."

"Just using my instincts, Grace. Isn't that what I was hired to do?"

"You are personally involved in this," replied Lisbon before Van Pelt could comment. "So forgive me if I don't totally trust your _instincts._ Let's stick to actual facts, for now, shall we?"

When she turned away, Jane mimicked her silently behind her back. Rigsby stifled a laugh with an unconvincing cough.

"Let me know when you pull up the video surveillance," Lisbon said to Van Pelt. Cho, Rigbsy—start checking out those car owners. I'll be in my office."

"Yes, Boss," came the chorus from her subordinates. Well, except for Jane.

"I wish you and Mom would quit fighting," said Rigsby.

Jane grinned. "She's just worried about me."

"That's sweet," Cho said dryly.

"Isn't it?" commented Jane. He rose slowly and followed her, leaving the rest of the team to shoot worried glances his way. Someone was trying to kill their friend and colleague, but they were actually more frightened of what could happen to him in Lisbon's office.

"I hope he's wearing a cup," muttered Cho.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Jane didn't even bother to knock, but pushed open Lisbon's office door-the better to take her off guard. He was surprised at what he saw, however. Instead of slamming things around her desk or cussing under her breath, she was sitting on the couch, elbows on her knees, face in her hands. She looked up at the sound of Jane's sudden entrance, and he caught a glimpse of watery eyes and a stricken expression.

"Hey," Jane said. "You okay?"

She wiped her eyes with the backs of her hands. "I'm fine."

"At the risk of getting into another argument with you today, I beg to differ." He sat down beside her on the couch.

She shook her head at him and laughed humorously. Then, she began to spill her thoughts, unable to stop once she'd begun.

"You know something, Jane? The past couple years, you've been kidnapped, nearly drowned, poisoned, and missing for months. I don't know how much more stress I can take over you. Sometimes I feel like the parent of a troubled teen, expecting a knock at the door some night from a cop with some very bad news. I thought I'd gotten away from that when my brothers finally grew up."

For the first time in awhile, Jane was truly shocked. He knew she was concerned when things happened to him—they were friends as well as colleagues, after all. But he realized in that moment there was more than just friendly apprehension behind her knitted brows; his past mishaps had taken a toll on her. Whereas two years ago, attempts on his life would have been met with a tinge of humor, once she'd realized he wasn't simply being paranoid this time around, she'd been thrown into full mother hen mode. It wasn't like her to get so emotional about a case, even if it involved one of her own.

"You know, most of those things weren't my fault," he said tentatively. She gave him a sidelong look. "Okay_, all_ of those things were my fault in some way. I anger the wrong people, take risks I shouldn't, and fail to think of the feelings of others."

"Are you trying to cheer me up?" she asked, but a small smile had briefly hovered about her lips.

He reached out a hand and touched her back consolingly. "You know, along with the reflexes of a cat, I also have its nine lives. I still have things to do in this life. So, you needn't worry, Teresa; look at all I've survived already. Some idiot with a Mustang is no match for me."

She was quiet for a moment, contemplating his words. "What life do you suppose you're on now, Morris?"

He pretended to count on his fingers. "By my count, I have at least two more to go."

"Two!"

He shrugged, pleased to find the pain had lessened in his shoulder. "We only met nine years ago, Lisbon. I had a rather…eventful existence even before we met." His smile was indulgent, and it coaxed an answering one from her.

"That still leaves me with one more than the rest of you mere mortals have," he continued. "When I'm down to my last, I promise to treat it with kid gloves."

"I'd feel a lot better if you got a head start on that and quit making enemies_. You_ may have two more lives, but I still have only the one, and you're slowly draining that life out of me."

His hand had begun making soothing circles in the middle of her back, and she had to admit that his humor as well as his touch had gone a long way toward calming her. But there was still someone out there plotting his demise, and she knew in that moment that she wouldn't be totally comfortable unless she was there to watch over him.

"I've changed my mind about Cho," she said suddenly.

"Good. Because I really don't need a—"

"_I'm_ going to do it," she interrupted. "Until we bust this guy, consider me your shadow. No arguments."

"Fine," he replied easily. _Too _easily, to Lisbon's mind.

"Really?" she said skeptically.

"Yep. For one thing, you're much prettier than Cho. But don't tell him I said that."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

That evening, with still no new leads, Lisbon drove Jane back to his motel room. She followed him up the outside stairs to his door, and he took out a key.

"An actual key," she said, looking around at the dodgy place. "How quaint."

He stopped and turned to her. "No need to get mean, Lisbon. You didn't have to escort me to my room, you know. For one thing, you didn't even buy me dinner first," he chided with a mischievous smirk.

To his amusement, Lisbon blushed. He put the key in the lock and was about to open the door, when Lisbon's cop instincts kicked in, and she reached down to cover his hand over the doorknob.

"Wait," she whispered, drawing her gun out with her other hand. "Let me go in first."

Even though she had the gun and the training, Jane always felt slightly emasculated in situations like this. Despite their role reversal, he still felt extremely protective of her, and not for the first time wished he were a better man. He reluctantly released the doorknob and stepped back, allowing her to turn it and push the door slowly open. She flipped on the light and he watched as she entered, a gun-wielding goddess, sweeping the room with her alert gaze and her ready weapon. She checked the bathroom and closet, then turned back to him, lowering her gun.

"Clear," she said in that endearing CBI agent way of hers.

He smiled. "Thanks, Agent Lisbon. I think I'll be okay now. Unless you'd like to stay for tea and Chinese delivery."

She looked tempted. "That's okay. I bought a sandwich from the vending machine at work. I'll watch from the car."

"Come on, Lisbon. You wouldn't be intruding. Look, I've got a TV. It's even in color. I'm pretty sure we've got the Military Channel too."

She grinned, but shook her head. "You get some rest. I'll be all right."

His coaxing smile slipped from his face, replaced with clear annoyance. "It's ridiculous that you should wait in the car, when it's perfectly comfortable inside. How about this—why don't you rent the adjoining room? I'm pretty sure it's empty. I'll even foot the bill so you don't have to try to wrangle reimbursement from the State of California. Come on, I feel responsible here."

He paused. She seemed genuinely conflicted now.

"Okay. I'll go rent the room next door. But I'll pay my own way."

Jane rolled his eyes. "Fine. Whatever you say, Miss Independence."

She ignored him and turned to leave. "Stay inside and lock the door behind me. I'll be right back."

She shut the door and actually waited on the other side to hear him draw the chain and turn the deadbolt—he knew this because he watched her through the peephole. He shook his head in amusement and went to the phone to order their dinner, whether she wanted it or not.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Fifteen minutes later, a knock came on the adjoining interior door.

"Jane, it's me. Open up."

"Well, howdy, neighbor. Hey, your room is just like mine."

"Uh, yeah. Now, leave the door unlocked." She moved to shut it between them again.

"Hey, plenty of egg foo yung for two here," he said, just as she caught a whiff. He swept his hand toward the kitchenette table, where four white boxes awaited them. "There's that lovely brown gravy you like to go with it…"

She hesitated as if they had never shared a meal before. In a motel room. Alone. They _had_ actually, on several occasions. So why did things suddenly seem different now? Was it because _Jane_ was the case? Was she instinctively falling back on professional distance to protect herself?

_What the hell's wrong with you, Teresa? _ She asked herself. _It's just Jane. _

She made her face and form relax, and she followed him into his room. She forced a smile that she was certain he would see right through.

"Sure. Okay. It does smell good."

And so they ate together, the conversation becoming as easy as usual, but then it turned to possible suspects for whomever was trying to do him in.

"Any thoughts occur to you lately?" She asked over a chopstick full of chow mein.

"No."

"Well, none of the car owners had any direct relationship to our past cases, and only two even had rap sheets, nothing CBI worthy. Either we're missing something with them or this is totally a dead end."

Jane munched away on his egg foo yung (one of his favorite ways to eat eggs).

"I'm at a loss, Lisbon. None of those names of Mustang drivers rang any bells. I really don't want to walk down memory lane again to delve into my old fake psychic cases. I guess it feels like it's more recent than that, but I can't quite put my finger on it. Just a feeling."

"Your feelings are usually on the money though."

Jane paused, eyebrows shooting up, egg-laden chopsticks halfway to his mouth.

"What's this? You're actually putting stock in my feelings?"

She blushed a little. "You know I always do, but as an officer of the law I have to cover every base. I can't go to a prosecutor and say, 'Hey, I've got no proof, no evidence, but my ex-fake psychic consultant has a_ feeling_ about this.' It's also my duty to show my team's done everything thing they could. The State wants a solid case, and even though you are right ninety-nine percent of the time, nothing says airtight like having some actual evidence."

Of course, there was one thing in that speech he pounced upon.

"Only ninety-nine percent?"

"Nobody's perfect, Jane."

The both grinned and continued their meal in companionable silence.

After they'd cleared the table and stowed the leftovers in Jane's mini-fridge, Jane settled on the bed while Lisbon sat in the recliner watching an old Cary Grant movie. He'd been wrong about The Military Channel. Jane had finished his tea and when she heard him yawn for the third time, she clicked the TV off with the remote control.

"I'll let you get some sleep," she said.

"I don't know what's come over me," he said around another yawn.

"Don't worry about it. I'm going next door. Holler if you need anything."

"Okay. And Lisbon…"

"Hmm?" She paused at the door to her room. She tried not to notice the inviting sight of a casual Jane in stocking feet, vest unbuttoned, hair tousled, eyes heavy, lying on a bed. Then he grinned sleepily and the sensual picture was complete. He was truly a beautiful man, and she'd noticed it from the beginning, of course. But in the last few months—well, since he'd blurted out that he loved her—she'd been noticing it more and more. He was still Jane. But now he was Jane Who'd Said He Loved Her. It was very disconcerting at times, especially times like this, when he was so…relaxed.

"Thanks for staying with me. Cho wouldn't have been nearly as fun."

She sniffed a little. "Oh, don't give me that. It would have been like a men's slumber party in here. Beer, poker, pay-per-view." She shivered dramatically. "Sorry you missed out on that."

His eyes had drifted close as she spoke so that by the time she'd finished her short speech he was breathing deeply, out like a light. He must not have been sleeping much lately. She smiled and walked over to the bed, pulling the spare blanket up around him from where it had been folded at the foot of the bed.

As she tucked the blanket around him, she gave into temptation and leaned in closer, a deep feeling of gratitude welling up in her eyes. He was lucky to be alive, had cheated death once again, despite his cavalier attitude and all the nine lives crap. Van Pelt had gotten access to video from a traffic light camera and they'd all watched in horror as the car had nearly hit him, and how he'd dove out of the way just in time. It still made her heart skip a beat just thinking about it. No new leads on either car or driver, however. Like much that surrounded Patrick Jane, it was a mystery to her.

She listened to his breathing for a moment, noted the long lashes resting against his cheekbones. Then, hesitantly at first, she reached out a hand and smoothed back a lock of hair that had fallen on his forehead.

"Good night, Jane," she whispered.

"Good night, Lisbon," he replied, a grin ghosting over his lips when she jostled his bed in startle. Combined with her surprise was keen mortification that he'd caught her acting so tenderly toward him, tucking him in like a child. Eyes still closed, he curled onto his side and snuggled into the blanket with a soft moan of contentment.

Lisbon nearly ran to the adjoining door, leaving Jane to chuckle into his pillow before promptly drifting into a dreamless sleep.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxx

Something made her wake up with a start. Lisbon had tried to stay awake, had sat upon her bed with the TV softly playing. She'd even made herself horrible coffee with the room's complimentary brewer and coffee packets. She must have been too emotionally drained to stay awake. The door to Jane's room was open a crack, and she'd listened to his deep breathing—almost, but not to the point of snoring. She must have drifted off. But now, as she became instantly awake as she'd learned to do as a cop, she realized that it hadn't been a noise, but a smell that had awakened her. Smoke. Something was burning.

Her eyes flew to the coffee maker, but the power light was off. Then, in the soft glow of the lamp, she saw smoky tendrils drifting through the crack in Jane's door.

"Jane!" she cried, rushing for his room. She pushed it open and was met with the horrifying sight of his room ablaze. The fire had apparently started around the door to the outside and was quickly spreading to the curtains at the window. Jane still lay on the bed, unmoving. Panic slammed into her, and for a moment she froze, hypnotized by the flickering glare of the flames.

Then she coughed as acrid smoke filled her lungs, and her training kicked in at the same moment. She launched into action, going to the bed and shaking Jane's arm, while her hand went to her cell phone and she dialed 911.

"Jane! Get up! There's a fire."

He wasn't responding.

"Jane!"

**A/N: Yes, evil cliffie! Hope you come back for the next chapter! In the meantime, please let me know what you think so far.**


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Thanks so much for the great welcome of this fic! I hope you continue to enjoy it. I'm revising the description a bit to make it humor/romance AND drama, because I found myself getting a little serious with this chapter. Just my mood, I suppose. Also, this chapter has major spoilers from the end of season 4 and season 5 so far, so be warned (again).

Enjoy!

**Chapter 2**

The emergency operator picked up and Lisbon gave the address and number of Jane's motel room.

"You might want to send an ambulance too," she said. "I'm not getting a response from the tenant of this room. I think he might have smoke inhalation."

With their reassurance that they were on their way, she pocketed her phone and squatted down by Jane's bed. She was a little thing, but she had been trained in how to pick up a grown man in an emergency. She sat him up in bed, grunting a little and coughing from the smoke at the same time as she turned him in order to better hold him beneath his arms. Around them, the fire raged, greedily consuming the cheap nylon curtains at the single window.

Lisbon pulled Jane to the floor, dragging him backwards through the adjoining doors and into her room. She paused for a breath of cleaner air, then moved him toward the outside door. Despite her strength, Jane's dead weight made her feel like she was pulling an awkward bag of rocks.

"Geeze, Jane…You need to lay off the blueberry muffins," she said, her eyes streaming from the smoke and fear for his lifeless state. She successfully hid her panic with a sudden rush of adrenalin, and it seemed at once as though she were merely dragging a small load of laundry.

She paused, having to let him down to the carpeted floor so she could open her door. At that moment, the smoke detector went off in her room, the cacophonous alarm adding further urgency. She lay Jane gently down outside on the concrete walkway, while the sound of neighboring detectors roused other tenants from their rooms. She was grateful she didn't have to leave Jane's side to run about and pound on doors to warn everyone of the fire.

With an eerie sense of calm, she pressed her fingers to Jane's neck to feel for a pulse, laying her head on his chest at the same time. She felt like collapsing with relief when she heard and felt his heartbeat—slow but steady—felt his chest rise beneath her cheek.

She shook him, then slapped him on the cheeks hard, calling his name as she heard the distant sirens of approaching fire trucks. He coughed in his sleep, then mumbled her name.

"Jane! Wake up, you idiot! What did you take?"

His eyes opened to blearily look up at her. "Why're…you…hittin'…me, Lis…bon?" The last word ended on a weak cough.

She laughed in a crazy mixture of gratitude and heart pounding adrenalin.

"You think you can get up?"

"Nope," he said, and then he was out again.

"Dammit, Jane." She reached into her pocket for her phone again and called Cho. He answered on the first ring.

"Boss."

How could the man not sound sleepy at three in the morning?

"Jane's motel room is on fire, and he's out cold. Drugged, I'm thinking. I got him out okay, but I guess we can add this to the list of murder attempts."

"Someone's not very efficient," commented Cho.

"Yeah, well, I guess that's lucky for Jane anyway. Call the others and get to Jane's motel asap. I'm going to the hospital with Jane."

"Yes, Boss."

And with a click, they both ended the call.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"It doesn't appear that he's had much of an overdose," said Dr. Mycroft later, outside Jane's hospital room. "Maybe the equivalent of three pills instead of the recommended one. He has a prescription on file. Sometimes when people are desperate for sleep, they overdo it a bit. It's probably just best to let him sleep it off."

Lisbon shook her head. "Jane wouldn't have taken any sleeping pills last night. He's had two attempts on his life this week, and I think someone knocked him out so he'd sleep through the fire."

The doctor's eyes widened. "Sounds like he leads an exciting life."

Lisbon smiled ironically. "You don't know the half of it. I'm going back to the scene of the fire. Please call me when he wakes up, and for God's sake, don't let him leave. I'll have a couple guards at his door. They won't let any unauthorized staff come in his room. Please give them that list of names."

"Certainly, Agent Lisbon. We'll do our best to take good care of Mr. Jane."

"Thanks."

She went back into Jane's room to check on him one last time, anxious about leaving him, but equally concerned about what they might find at the scene to figure out who had done this thing. Cho had called to say the fire was out, and soon it would be safe enough to go back in and see what evidence was salvageable.

She looked at him tenderly, peaceful and golden against the white sheets. An oxygen mask was strapped to his face to help with his slight smoke inhalation. He still reeked of smoke—they both did, though they'd removed his smelly suit and put him in a hospital gown. She leaned over him, this time unhesitant to kiss him gently on the cheek, savoring the slight roughness of his stubble, the faint crispness of his cologne, detectable even over the smoke. She lovingly fingered a soft curl at his nape, while he breathed deeply of the clean air.

Anger at the person or persons who might have succeeded in killing him this time suddenly overwhelmed her, and her eyes watered with rage and something else she'd been denying to herself for years. She looked at him in wonder.

"I love you," she whispered in surprise. "God help me, but I do."

Somehow she'd imagined that if she'd ever said those words again to a man, it would be under much more romantic circumstances. Leave it to Jane to inspire such a confession at the most inappropriate time, and have the beautiful phrase be tinged with anger.

"I promise you, Jane, I'm going to get the bastard who did this."

She kissed him again, straightened his blanket, and switched off the light over his bed. At least he'd get some much-needed rest. She was exhausted herself, but nothing mattered—least of all, sleep- when she had a job this important to do. Maybe she was becoming more and more like Jane after all.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"Well, at least his suits were saved," said Van Pelt to Lisbon as the four team members stood within the smoking, dripping remains of Jane's motel room. The front half was completely burned out, but the back part, which included his closet, half of the kitchenette, and the bathroom, remained intact, though severely water and smoke damaged.

"Yeah, I'm sure he'll be happy to hear that—although it might have forced him to actually buy something new for a change," Lisbon said. The women smiled knowingly at each other.

"I'm guessing the fire started when someone squirted accelerant under the door, then slipped a lit cigarette or a match beneath it. They probably waited until the lights had been out awhile to be sure he was asleep," said Rigsby, the arson expert. He held up the half-melted, useless smoke detector. "Look; no batteries inside."

"Even if he'd awakened and tried to get out, he would have been trapped inside if I hadn't been behind the adjoining, unlocked door."

Rigsby nodded gravely.

"The doctor said he'd had too much sleeping medicine," she continued, "I'm pretty sure he didn't take anything, and we both ate Chinese food. So it had to be in something he had but I didn't. It hit him pretty hard, pretty fast."

The CSU had already come in and gathered samples of the leftover food from the night before and other perishables in the small refrigerator. If she had to guess, the pills had been dissolved in the milk he'd put in his tea—there seemed no other explanation, based on what she'd witnessed.

"If we didn't know better, this would all seem like an unfortunate accident," added Cho.

"I think that was the plan. Nothing traceable to anyone. Maybe CSU will get lucky and find some prints, though." She went to his closet and pulled out his suitcases, and began filling them with his suits and other clothes. Van Pelt joined her and began to help.

"I'll take these to the cleaners," she offered.

"Thanks, Grace. I know he'll appreciate that."

Lisbon gathered his belongings from the bathroom and put them in a small carryon bag.

"I want to get Jane into a safe-house," she said to Van Pelt. "He should be all right at the CBI during the day, but he needs to be guarded twenty-four-seven."

"He's not going to like that," said Rigsby.

"Tough," she said, and the rest of the team knew better than to try to argue on Jane's behalf.

"I'll see what's available, Boss," said Van Pelt.

"You guys clear your schedules for the weekend," she said. "You've all got guard duty."

"Yes, ma'am," they chorused. None of them seemed surprised at Lisbon's protectiveness; they knew she would do the same for any of them. But there was a touch of something else in her demeanor, a concern that went beyond that for a mere colleague.

"We'll catch him," murmured Van Pelt, bravely touching their boss's arm.

Lisbon slowed her packing and looked at her. "This was too close," she said. "When I think what might have happened had I not been there…"

Van Pelt squeezed Lisbon's arm in understanding, then passed the suitcases to Rigsby and Cho to put in her car.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"Good afternoon," Lisbon said to Jane with a smile, when his eyes finally fluttered open hours later.

He looked at his surroundings in wonder, then focused bleary eyes on Lisbon, who'd been sitting by his hospital, reading a magazine. His hands went to his air mask and he removed it to speak.

"What the hell happened?" he asked hoarsely. She got up to bring him the water the nurse had left him. She helped him take off his mask and put the bendable straw to his dry lips.

"Drink first," she ordered.

He did, sucking deeply from the straw, his eyes pleading for her to fill him in.

"Someone drugged you, disabled your smoke detector, and set fire to your room."

"Hmmm?"

"Yeah. Guess that leaves you with just one life left, Mr. Pussycat," she said. He brushed away the straw and reached for her hand.

"You saved my life, didn't you?"

She shrugged uncomfortably. "That's my job."

To her surprise, he brought her knuckles to his lips. "Thanks, Teresa."

She blushed in reply, slowly slipping her hand from his grasp. He raised an eyebrow at her discomfort, but said nothing. She cleared her throat.

"Now you're awake, maybe you can give us some insight into who would have done this."

"No idea. But I do know it's someone who isn't a professional. I mean, three failed attempts? I'm thinking this was a very inexperienced hit man."

"Someone hired this person to kill you? I'd demand my money back."

He sat up, holding his head a moment to keep it from spinning. She walked over to help steady him.

"Hey, take it easy. It might take you awhile to get that medicine out of your system."

He glanced up at her with a lopsided grin. "Anyone else feeling déjà vu here?"

"Long as you don't try to hijack an ambulance again, I'd say this is a totally different experience. You feel like coming into the office?"

"Yeah. Just give me a second here, oh, and…my uh, clothes?"

Upon seeing his naked legs emerging from beneath the sheets, Jane belatedly realized he was wearing only a flimsy hospital gown. Lisbon looked hurriedly away as she remembered it too, and tried without success not to notice that his back was mostly bared to her gaze, her eyes helplessly following the smooth line of his spine as it disappeared beneath the lowest tie of the blue gown. She swallowed, and he noted her discomfort with a small smile.

"Well, your clothes from the motel are all smoke damaged," she rushed to say. "But the guys made a donation while your stuff's being cleaned. Cho is shorter, and Rigsby's taller, so you'll just have to try them all, I suppose." She produced a paper grocery sack containing two sweat suits, two pairs of jeans, two t-shirts, two pairs of boxers—two different sizes

"Gee, thanks," he said sincerely. She also had repacked his toiletries from his bathroom into a plastic bag.

"I guess I'll find a new motel to stay in to—"he began.

"No. You'll stay at the CBI the rest of the afternoon, then we've got a safe-house for you near Placerville. The team and I will take turns with bodyguard detail."

"Fine."

She was surprised when he didn't protest. "Well, that was easy," she said.

"No use fighting with you, Lisbon."

"Since when?"

"Since someone would prefer me dead."

She averted her eyes from the intensity of his and moved to leave.

"I'll just let you shower and change, then. I'll be right outside the door if you need anything."

"My back washed?" he suggested, though his humorous attempt didn't reach his eyes.

"You wish."

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Jane sat on the bed for a few moments after she left. She was acting strangely, even under the circumstances. She seemed unaccountably nervous around him, and he had the feeling it was more than his death threats causing her discomfort. But he pushed those feelings aside for the moment, choosing instead to focus on his own odd reactions.

Through all of this, he had felt quite simply…numb. He was a good actor though—showbiz never leaves your blood no matter how hard you push it away. He'd managed to show the requisite amount of concern for his own health, enough so that Lisbon had lapsed into protective mode. He certainly knew how to play that for all it was worth.

And it wasn't as if someone hadn't wanted him dead in the past. If he thought hard enough, he could still imagine the pain from a cattle prod wielded by a mentally deranged young woman. This was different, and he couldn't understand why no suspects were occurring to him, why he had no clear direction in his mind.

The past few months had been frustrating, confusing, and filled with deep lows and exhilarating highs. He'd slept with Lorelei. He'd lost Lorelei. He'd found and helped her escape from the county jail. Ultimately, he'd let Lorelei go. She gave him the single most useful clue to Red John's identity that he'd had since Rosalind Harker described the serial killer's physical attributes. He had a working list of suspects now for Red John. Fomenting a list of those who wanted to kill him should have been a breeze by comparison.

But the numbness had set in and it was almost like he didn't care for his own welfare. These death threats were a distraction from his real purpose—finding Red John-and he just couldn't focus enough to figure out who was after him. Maybe getting away from things in a safe-house somewhere might allow his head to clear and help him to get in the game. After all, if someone killed him, who was going to put forth the effort to track down Red John? Not even Lisbon could mete out the justice he had in mind.

Gingerly, Jane slid to the floor and went to the bathroom, a brief smile touching his lips as he relived the moment when Lisbon had caught a peek at his backside. Yeah, there was something going on there, with her, no doubt about it. Maybe that safe-house could also be a place to delve into the mystery of Teresa Lisbon's unusual behavior. Suddenly, he was actually looking forward to it.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Clad in Cho's jeans and Rigby's gray CBI sweatshirt, Jane sat on his couch looking through old case files. He was just going through the motions, however, killing time, so to speak, until the boss declared it quitting time. He still felt a little drowsy, and had taken another nap, while a dull headache added to the overall after-effects of the overdose. At six o'clock, his teammates bid him good-bye, reassuring him they'd see him at the safe-house to relieve Lisbon, who had insisted on taking the first watch. Not long after, Lisbon joined him in the bullpen.

"You ready?" she asked.

He yawned, stretched, and set the stack of mostly unread files on the cushion beside him.

"So glad you're here to take me away from all this," he said.

"Well, it's not supposed to be a vacation where we're going. It's a working weekend, so grab that box of files to take with you."

He managed to look pouty enough to be believable and hoisted up the box while Lisbon grabbed his "luggage". She looped the handles of the paper sack round her wrist and grabbed a box of her own from the nearby stack.

In the elevator, he lifted an eyebrow as he noticed she'd pressed the button that would take them to the parking garage.

"We'll take one of the company cars parked below," she explained, "and you'll duck down in the back seat in case someone's watching us leave out the back way. Hopefully seeing my car still in the outside lot will confuse them, at least for awhile."

"Wow, Lisbon, you've thought of everything."

"That's my job."

"Hmm," he replied in amusement, and when she realized he was mocking her, she got that familiar, I-want-to-slug-you look on her face that he found so endearing. He only grinned good-naturedly.

After putting the boxes in the trunk of the long black sedan, she grabbed a hat and sunglasses from the front seat.

"Get in the back," she ordered, and he did so, amused at the spylike intrigue of it all.

"Yes, ma'am," he said flippantly, earning another annoyed glance. He watched in fascination as she stuffed her chestnut hair into the fedora and placed the large sunglasses over her eyes, wondering how she'd be able to see in the encroaching darkness. She got in the driver's side and looked back at Jane, who by then was lying uncomfortably on the floor.

"Very convincing," he remarked at her disguise.

She started the car. "Just shut up and stay down until we merge onto the highway."

He chuckled and tried to find a comfortable position over the hump on the floor.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Just outside of Sacramento, they stopped at a convenience store and Jane got in the front passenger's seat.

"Stay put. I'm going in to get a few supplies for the night. Van Pelt is supposed to bring groceries up tomorrow. Anything in particular you want?"

"Whatever tea they have, and milk to go with it, if you don't mind. And I know better than to be too picky, given the fine establishment where you're purchasing my tea."

"Well, that's wise. Anything else?"

"Eggs?"

She grinned. "Will do. I'm sure Seven-Eleven can accommodate your diet of eggs, tea, and lunchmeat sandwiches."

"I'm an uncomplicated man."

It was her turn to raise an eyebrow, and she left him grinning in the car—motioning for him to lock the door behind her.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The safe-house turned out to be a modern, high-ceilinged structure in the forest on the outskirts of town. The peaks of the Sierra Nevadas loomed darkly in the distance, and the ground was white from a recent light snow. He shivered in his borrowed sweatshirt as he helped Lisbon unload their boxes and supplies.

Inside, he took a tour of the house, wishing for the impracticality of more windows. Not that he could see anything in the dark night, but he knew in daylight the view up here would be spectacular. There were four bedrooms, each with its own bathroom, a large living area, dining room, and open kitchen. The pantry was well-stocked, but Lisbon was right to bring some fresh food to supplement the canned chili and boxes of cold cereal.

A big screen TV hung on the wall, and a fireplace was already laid with wood. Jane busied himself with lighting it while Lisbon unpacked their groceries and put on the teakettle.

"That's nice," she commented, joining him in front of the crackling blaze. She held out a cup of tea for him, and nursed a cup of hot cocoa of her own.

"Well, now what, Lisbon? You've finally gotten me alone—"

She nearly choked on her cocoa. He patted her on the back as she tried to collect herself.

"What?" she croaked eventually.

"I mean, away from everyone so you can protect me better, of course."

"Yeah. Uh, right."

"What did you think I meant?" He couldn't resist teasing her further.

"This does seem a good place to sort things out," she hedged, eliciting a grin from him. "Away from the hustle and bustle of the office."

He had mercy on her and didn't delve into the possible double meaning of her reply. Instead, he motioned that they sit on the leather couch across from the fireplace, and he felt her tension like it was a tangible thing. He tried to think of something mundane to say that might relax those stiff shoulders of hers.

"Good tea," he commented. "You're the only one besides me that can make it exactly right."

"I'm glad I can meet such exacting standards."

"I meant that as a compliment. Just say thank you."

"Thank you," she said with a smirk.

With a sigh, she sank into the soft leather, rearranging the throw pillows behind her back while kicking off her shoes. She set down her mug and tucked her feet beneath her on the couch. He regarded her in the firelight, admiring how her skin and hair glowed, her eyes shining a green fire of their own.

"That's good, Lisbon. Relax. No one can find us here. Why don't you take a nap? No offense, but you look exhausted."

She stifled a yawn and an embarrassed _excuse me. _

"Just close your eyes," he said softly, injecting a hypnotizing note into his tone. She was so tired that she hadn't the will to resist his suggestion, and so she did as he asked.

"Don't even think of trying to hypnotize me, Jane," she said.

"I wouldn't think of it," he lied.

"Besides, I'm just resting my eyelids for a few minutes. I've no intention of sleeping…"

He'd slept a little on the drive up there, so Jane found himself wide awake and at loose ends. Before long, Lisbon had drifted off, and he was happy for her, though she'd likely kick herself later for falling asleep on the job like that. But the only way he'd wake her up is if someone were breaking in. He watched the fire, lost in thought, mentally going over the list he'd composed and memorized that was still in the small notebook in his bag of clothes. He wasn't even thinking of his own would-be murderer.

He'd narrowed his list even more lately, crossing out those who didn't match Rosalind's physical description of Red John or Lorelei's personality characterization (someone like him). He himself tried to compare his list to his own brief glimpse of the masked killer when Red John had come to his rescue and killed his copycats. He had ten good names, and no way to narrow it further without going back and talking to every one of them. That, he'd decided, would be his next step.

He was just pondering where to begin on that when he felt the vibration of an incoming text. He slipped the phone from his front jeans pocket and glanced at the message.

_Meet me on way to S. Lake Tahoe in 2 hrs. Rest stop 78 on Hwy 50, or next time I won't fail._

Jane stared at the message a moment, then glanced at Lisbon, who was sound asleep.

_Who the hell is this? _ He texted back.

_Your executioner._

_Why would I meet you if you plan to kill me?_

_Because you're dying to know who I am :)_

_Did I do something to offend you?_

_When you see me, you'll know._

He paused, considering what to do.

_If you bring any cops, they die first, _added his tormentor. _Especially Agent Lisbon._

_You're not a very good executioner, _Jane taunted. _I'm still alive._

_I've just been playing with you. I'm not playing anymore. And you now have 1 hr, 55 min. Oh, and bring your list._

Jane stared at the last three words. This was someone he knew, someone who'd been watching him. Were they watching him now? He'd totally missed any link to Red John, and he kicked himself for not even having considered it. He thought of waking up Lisbon, but knew she'd have the cops on that rest stop in no time flat, and the person would get away.

Then, a thought occurred to him, and on a hunch, he texted one more word.

_Lorelei?_

There was no reply for nearly a full minute, then:

_Sorry, but no. I'll tell her you said hi though. And you're wasting time._

_I'll be there, _he answered.

_I'll be waiting…_

Jane quietly flipped his phone closed and got up carefully from the couch. Lisbon would be fit to be tied when she found him gone, but there was nothing for it. This was his fight, not hers, and he wouldn't have her risking her life for him again.

She'd left the keys to the car on the kitchen counter. He found a slip of paper and pen and left her a note so she wouldn't think he'd been abducted.

_Dear Lisbon:_

_No one's taken me. I'm fine. I'll be back soon. _

He thought for a moment, realizing that this might be his last chance to say what was in his heart. He looked toward the living room where she slept, and he could just see the top of her small head above the back of the couch. With renewed determination (and before he chickened out) he finished his note:

_I meant what I said before I shot you._

_Jane_

He grasped the keys tightly in his hand as he tiptoed to the side door. This way, he wouldn't have to walk in front of her to escape. As the door clicked shut behind him, the crisp, pine-scented air inundated his senses. He took a deep breath and walked around the house to the sedan. He got in and put the car in neutral, allowing it to roll backward down the sloped driveway. On the street, he started the engine and drove toward Lake Tahoe.

**A/N: I'm taking some liberties with California rest stops. Those of you familiar with the area might notice I'm not being exactly accurate. I hope you'll forgive me. Thanks for reading, and hey, if you would like to leave a review, I wouldn't mind a bit. **

**P.S. I'll try to update "Teresa" as soon as I can :)**


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: This chapter is dedicated to my good friend, Nerwen. Hope it brightens your holiday. As for the rest of you, I'm so terribly behind in answering reviews, for not only this fic, but for "Teresa" and "Another Moonlight Mistletoe Fic", that I've decided to do what I hate doing, and that's give you a blanket reply: thank you all so much for all your kind reviews! I've read every one and they each mean the world to me. I figured however, (and I hope rightfully so) that you'd rather I use the time to write more chapters than to respond individually. I will try to find a way to get better at replying. I do so appreciate all the time you take to read and compose such encouraging reviews to my work. Thank you again!

**Now, here's…**

**Chapter 3**

It was the second night in a row that Lisbon had awakened in a strange location. This time, instead of the smell of smoke as her wake-up call, she found that she was terribly cold. She'd neglected to turn on the central heat, and without the fire it had become quite chilly in the high-ceilinged safe-house.

"Jane," she called softly. But there was no answer, and the living room was empty. He must have chosen one of the bedrooms and gone to sleep.

She got up from the couch and first went to turn on the thermostat, then went to the kitchen to retrieve her overnight bag. She was about to flip off the light switch when a slip of paper on the counter caught her eye. She felt a sharp stab of dread even before she picked it up. It was a note from Jane. The first line made her both angry and relieved at the same time, much like she'd felt when she saw him in that church months before.

_No one's taken me. I'm fine. I'll be back soon._

Pausing, she went to the front door and opened it to a veritable winter wonderland. Snow was falling softly from the sky, and already two inches had accumulated on the path to the driveway. She stepped out onto the porch to find that sure enough, there was no longer a black sedan parked in front of the house. She recalled then that she hadn't seen the keys on the counter where she'd left them.

"Damn you, Jane!" she said into the night. She shivered, shook her head at his audacity, then went back into the house, the note still clutched in her hand. She brought it to the lamp by the couch to read the rest of whatever bullshit explanation he'd come up with to explain why he'd stranded her in a safe-house in the middle of a stormy night.

_I meant what I said before I shot you._

She gasped aloud, nearly falling to the couch in shock. Her hand went to her mouth, as the vivid memory of Jane pointing a gun at her suffused her thoughts for perhaps the millionth time.

_Good luck, Teresa. Love you._

It had been a confusing time, and not just owing to Jane's dangerous and convoluted plan to capture Red John. Emotionally, she'd been a wreck for months before—worry alternating with fury, followed closely by a longing so sharp some days she feared she wouldn't get through it. All her personal issues with abandonment (mother dying; father killing himself) came to the fore, and within that miasma of feelings, she'd discovered that Patrick Jane had become such a huge part of her life that she might never recover from losing him too.

But then he'd returned, and she was so happy to have him back she'd agreed to anything he'd asked of her, no matter how foolhardy, just for the sheer pleasure of being beside him, of being included in another of his crazy schemes. And then he'd said he loved her. There had been no reason to say those words other than that he'd meant them, no audience to witness him playing a part. No, no reason at all, no matter how he'd tried to justify it later by saying he didn't remember, that he'd been caught up in the drama of the moment. _Bullshit._

And now he was admitting that he'd meant it all along. He _did _love her. _What an asshole._

She re-read the note, her hand shaking as she held it before her. His words warmed her heart, no matter how angry she was that he'd gone out into the night when there was someone out there trying to kill him.

_He loves me. What a jerk to tell me in a note the moment before he steals my car._

She smiled a little, enjoying the idea of Patrick Jane admitting his true feelings for once. But the smile suddenly froze on her face as realization washed over her. He wouldn't have made such a confession unless…unless he thought he might not be around to tell her in person.

"Dear God, Jane," she said aloud. "What the hell have you gotten yourself into now?"

She fumbled in her pants pocket for her phone, hitting speed dial number one. After several rings it went to Jane's annoyingly cheerful voicemail. She didn't bother leaving a message. Her next call was to Cho. He must really be tired of getting calls from her in the middle of the night, but he answered as if he'd been up for hours.

"Yeah, Boss?"

"Jane's gone."

"What do you mean, _gone?_"

"He stole my goddamn car to go God-knows-where, and I'm thinking he must have gotten a lead on his own to his stalker. Maybe even heard from him directly, I don't know. He left a note saying he was all right, but you know he's probably doing something stupid. Anyway, get with Van Pelt and track the car's GPS. Hopefully he's not savvy enough to have disconnected it." She was counting on the fact that Jane had never been very knowledgeable about modern electronics.

"Will do."

She ended her call with the loyal Cho, then tried her disloyal consultant once more. This time, she left a message so angry and full of profanity that if he ever received it, he might be too afraid to ever return again. _If he ever received it. Dear God, Jane._

Twenty minutes later, Van Pelt called.

"We've found the car. It's parked at a road side park about an hour from you. Rigsby and Cho are on their way."

"Thank God," she said, before she could stop herself.

"Yeah," agreed Van Pelt. "The idiot. What's he thinking?"

Lisbon laughed without humor, and she hoped she didn't sound as hysterical as she felt. "Now that's the million dollar question. Thanks, Grace. Keep me updated."

It was one of the longest nights she'd spent in awhile, imagining all the things he might be encountering, the trouble he might be in. The sense of déjà vu was nearly overwhelming. He'd left her again to pursue his obsession with capturing a killer. Then another thought occurred to her. He only acted this way when Red John was involved.

Sure, he did idiotic things to prove himself right and catch killers in other cases, but usually it didn't mean going so far as to put himself in danger. Up until now, even though someone was out to get him, he'd seemed fairly blasé about the whole thing. What would have changed his behavior? What would have made him go out in the middle of a cold night in the snow, leaving her behind, leaving her a _confessional_, for God's sake, as if now he was actually fearful for his own life? _Only Red John_. And then Teresa knew even greater fear.

But this wasn't Red John's MO, she quickly reassured herself. Red John liked to toy with him, certainly, but it was more a mental cat and mouse. Even she knew that if Red John wanted him dead, he wouldn't choose indirect methods like cut brakes or burned out motel rooms. No, if the serial killer had been involved, there would be no warning, and she would have found Jane carved up beneath a bloody smile somewhere. She shivered at the thought of her worst nightmare.

Only one other person had made him act as crazy as this. Lorelei Martins. Lisbon didn't even want to think of what his going to meet with her could mean. Her emotions where Jane and that brainwashed bitch were concerned were too infuriating to contemplate now. If this had something to do with Red John's whore, then Jane deserved anything that happened to him. Or so she told herself. Thinking of what might really be happening between those two made her too sick to speculate.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Two hours and a pot of coffee later, she received a call from Cho. She hastily set down her cup and brought her phone to her ear.

"Cho?"

"We found the car at the rest stop," he told her. "Jane was nowhere in sight. New snow hid any footprints or signs of scuffle. He'd left his phone inside though. There were some text messages…"

Lisbon held her breath. "What did they say?"

She listened while he read the texts back to her, and just as she'd expected, Jane had left in pursuit of what he suspected was a lead on Red John.

"That damn list," she muttered.

"What list were they talking about?" Cho asked.

She sighed. "This is Need to Know, got it? Apparently Lorelei Martins told Jane he had shaken hands with Red John before, so Jane's been obsessing about listing in his little notebook everyone he remembers shaking hands with, who could possibly be him."

"That's dumb," said Cho. "She could be lying."

"That's what I said."

"There were no notebooks in the car anywhere." His words hung ominously between them. That would mean the person he was meeting with had both Jane _and _the list, whatever that meant.

"Well, continue searching the rest area, then see if you can trace the cell phone number. I'll call Van Pelt to come and pick me up, since that idiot left me stranded out here."

"Okay, Boss—"

But then, in the background, Lisbon heard the unmistakable voice of Wayne Rigsby.

"Cho! I think I've found something!"

"Hold on, Boss."

"Wait!" she called into the phone, but all she could hear was the sound of feet crunching on snow until Cho reached Rigsby's location.

"Look," said Rigsby, and Lisbon could imagine him shining his flashlight on something. "Doesn't that look like a shoe down there?"

_Down there? _Thought Lisbon, trying not to panic.

"That brown thing half-buried in the snow?"

"Yeah," said Rigsby. "Jesus. You think he went over the railing? That's a long way down. Jane! Jane!" Both men began calling for him, then paused, apparently hearing no answer.

Lisbon swallowed hard, and reached out for the kitchen counter for support. After a few more calls of Jane's name, Cho came back on the line.

"Boss, no way to know for certain given that it's dark and snowing so hard, but there's a possibility that Jane fell over the railing of a scenic overlook that jets out over the lake. We'll have to wait for morning to know for sure."

Lisbon was silent, not even noticing the tears that were falling down her cheeks.

"Boss? You there?"

She swallowed over the lump in her throat and managed to croak: "He was-_pushed_ over, you mean."

"I don't know," said Cho, but his voice had gone fatalistically soft. Cho was by no means a sentimental sort, but he knew how much Jane meant to her, how torn up she would be if Jane were dead. "I'll call you if we find anything else. We'll ask around the truck stop restaurant down the road. Maybe somebody saw something. And I'll call Van Pelt."

"Thanks," she said, and numbly hung up.

Lisbon went to one of the few windows in the house, the one over the kitchen sink that looked out into a ravine that dropped twenty feet below. All she could see in the halo of the safety light outside was the steady snow, falling now in huge flakes. Somewhere at the bottom of another cliff, an injured Jane could be freezing to death in this same snow, or maybe he was already dead, having struck his head on a rock or fallen into Lake Tahoe's icy depths. She vowed then and there that whoever had done this thing would pay, and for once she began to understand the pain Jane must have been going through for most of a decade.

Part of her still held on to hope, the part that had faith in an ultimately benevolent God. They hadn't found a body, so that meant there was a chance he was still alive, maybe just taken by the maniac who'd been after him, his shoe lost in the scuffle. Maybe whoever it was, was also interested in the identity of Red John, or wanted to know what Jane knew. She would drive herself crazy if she kept speculating. It was only a couple of hours until morning light, so perhaps then they could rule out a few things, and at least end this tormenting wait.

_Please hold on, Jane. Wherever you are…_

She sat on the couch and began to pray in earnest.

Another long hour passed and Lisbon could wait no longer, so she called Cho for an update.

"I was about to call you," said the stoic agent. "We're stuck at the truck stop. Highway 50 has been closed down because of the snow. We spoke to a few truckers, and patrons of the restaurant here, but nobody knows anything. We might be able to go back around the long way to Sacramento in the SUV, muscle our way through the road blocks with our CBI ID's, but it's coming down pretty hard out here. Visibility isn't great."

Lisbon sighed. "No, don't risk it. Besides, I want you to go back to the rest stop in the morning, try to get some state police out there to help in the search."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Sorry your accommodations aren't the best."

She could almost see Cho shrugging. "Part of the job," he said. She noticed that he didn't offer her any reassurances. He was thinking that Jane was dead, she could tell.

"Talk to you later," she said.

Van Pelt called then to let her know that Rigsby had filled her in on what they'd found at the rest stop. Lisbon could hear the tears in the younger agent's voice, but she was trying her best to be positive with Lisbon.

"The highway is closed right before Placerville, Boss. I'm sorry, but they won't let me through, even with my badge. Blizzard conditions are expected up near the pass."

"It doesn't matter. I can't get to the scene anyway. Go home, get some sleep. Tomorrow will be a long day."

"Okay. No hits on the cell phone that texted Jane. Probably a throw-away."

"Not a surprise."

"Hey, Boss…he's still out there, I just know it. "

"Thanks, Grace. All we can do now is pray."

"Then that's what I'll be doing. You try to rest too. You'll do him no good if you're not at your best tomorrow."

Lisbon smiled, overlooking her overstepping of boundaries; Van Pelt was a good person.

"I'll try," she replied, but both women knew that was a tall order.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxx

At six o'clock in the morning, the loud engine of an approaching vehicle brought Lisbon to the door again. She looked outside through the peephole to see that a huge snowplow had stopped at the end of the driveway.

_Well_, she thought, _at least I might be able to get out of here today._

She heard the faint sound of a truck door slamming, and she squinted through the lightly falling snow to see the driver was talking to someone through his rolled down window. She opened the door at the sound of a familiar laugh, as the snowplow driver waved and the vehicle went about its business.

With a cry of joy, Lisbon ran down the steps, nearly slipping in her haste. The snow was nearly up to her knees, and she didn't even care about her pants and stocking feet becoming wet as she hopped over drifts on her way to meet the snow plow's passenger.

At the end of the path, Jane stopped with a grin to see his fast-moving welcoming committee jumping through the snow like an excited rabbit. He only caught sight of dark hair and a tear ravaged face before he was enclosed full force in her warm embrace.

"Jane!" she said into his chest, hugging him tightly beneath the old Army blanket he'd borrowed from a benevolent truck driver. "You're alive!"

"Yes," he whispered into her hair. "So it would seem." His arms tightened around her as he breathed in her scent, made heady when combined with pine and the cleanness of new-fallen snow.

After a few moments, he felt her trembling a little. At first he thought it was from the cold, but when he disentangled himself from her body, and looked down into her face, he saw that she was crying, her small body wracked with sobs.

"Lisbon? What's wrong?"

This was so unlike her that he felt his heart rate accelerate with fear. "What's happened?" he asked, the tenderness leaving his voice.

"You! We thought you were dead, you idiot!"

He nodded in satisfaction. "Good. If you guys think it, then so do—"

And then Jane found himself unceremoniously pushed into the snow.

He looked up at her, snow seeping down the collar of his sweatshirt, eyes wide with surprise. She wiped at her tears angrily with the backs of her hands.

"Why the hell did you leave without telling me? I could have hidden in the backseat with you. We could have had back up waiting at the rest stop."

"Huh. So you found my phone. I must have left it in the car."

"Yes you did," she practically yelled. Then, remembering something, she glanced at his feet, noticing he wore, predictably, only one of his stupid brown shoes. The other foot was encased in a wet and dirty argyle sock. She shook her head in disgust. She couldn't believe he'd kept that damn shoe.

"Look," he said reasonably, trying to deflate her anger. "Let's go in the house so I can take a hot shower and drink some even hotter tea, and I'll tell you all about it. And do you have some aspirin? I ache all over."

Tongue-tied with the familiar feelings of anger and relief, she turned her back on him, fighting her way back through the deep snow to the porch, then into the beckoning warmth of the safe-house, where she promptly shut the door behind her.

Jane watched her go, then struggled in the snow to get up, feeling much like a turtle trapped on its back. "Aren't you going to help me up?" he called, to no avail. "Women," he said to himself with a grin.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Jane felt like a new man after the hot shower, but he was still tired, aching, and starving. He'd dressed in Cho's sweatpants and Rigsby's too-big t-shirt. Lisbon, having changed her wet pants and socks, was puttering around the kitchen making scrambled eggs and toast. He entered the room with a grin, but his welcome this time was not nearly as warm as the one outside in the snow. His smile faded, but didn't leave his eyes.

"Cold shoulder treatment, eh?"

She dished out his eggs, and plopped a slice of toast on his plate. She practically slammed down his tea, and the hot liquid sloshed over the side of the cup and into the matching saucer. He sat down across the counter from her in a high barstool.

"I'm trying to hold my temper, Jane. I'm angry on so many levels that I don't know where to begin, and I'm afraid once I get started, I'll end up killing you myself."

"Would it help if I apologized?"

"No."

He shrugged, sipping his perfectly prepared tea, briefly closing his eyes with supreme gratitude. "Then I won't bother."

He took a bite of eggs—over easy, just like he liked them—and was about to express his enjoyment when her cold stare stopped him.

"Well? You're warm and dry and drinking your tea—now tell me what the hell happened to you at that rest stop?"

He chewed his bite thoughtfully. "When I got there, I figured I was too early. No one was around except a couple of trucks that had stopped. The snow was starting to pick up and I got tired of waiting in the car, so I got out. There was a ramp thing—some sort of scenic overlook that extends over the lake. I walked onto it and was looking down, when next thing I know, someone hauled me up over the side. I managed to hang onto the railing for a minute before I slipped off and rolled down the hill a ways."

Lisbon gasped at the picture he'd painted, and she leaned forward on the counter in shared fear of what he had gone through.

"A tree broke my fall, and thankfully it was dark. Someone fired silenced shots all around me, and I expected at any moment I'd get hit. But after they'd emptied their clip, they gave up, and I listened to the distant sound of a car driving away. I managed to climb back up using trees for hand holds, then the scaffolding of the overlook, but I lost my shoe somewhere along the way. I'm sort of put out about that," he concluded thoughtfully.

"Did you see who did it?"

"No, but it was a very strong man; of that I am certain."

"Why didn't you use the car to come back here? Or find your phone and call me?"

"They think I'm dead, Lisbon. Now maybe we can figure out who killed me."

"You could have called somehow."

"Look, if this is someone working for Red John, as you probably have guessed, he has inside connections. He's probably tracing my calls, or maybe even yours. I used my badge and the cash I had on me to hitch a ride with a trucker, who took me as far as he could before the road was closed. Then I found your friendly neighborhood Mr. Plow, and here I am. I'm a little scratched up, and maybe have a touch of frostbite on my left foot, but none the worse for—"

"This is the stupidest idea you've ever had, and not just because you scared me half to death."

"Hey, it worked before with that football player, remember? We flushed out the killer in no time that way."

"But we have no other leads, and we're trapped here with no transportation, and no way to get anyone in either. The forecast is for even more snow today. Rigsby and Cho are holed up at a truck stop, and Van Pelt can't get here from Sacramento. Now what, Mr. Brilliant?"

"Tell Cho and Rigsby to keep searching for me. You haven't told them I'm here, have you?"

"No. But Jane, how can I do this to them? They'll think you're dead, at the bottom of Lake Tahoe."

"Phone lines can be tapped, Lisbon. Trust me. As soon as the pass clears, we'll get out of here and see who shows up at my funeral." He grinned suddenly around a mouthful of toast. "That should be very interesting, don't you think?"

"I doubt if anyone will be there, frankly," she said.

His face fell. "Ouch. Now, that's hurtful. I bet the church will be brimming—"

"Church? Everyone knows you're not religious."

"No, but you are. And as my best friend and colleague, you'd be the one to plan my funeral, wouldn't you?'

"No way. This is too cruel, even for you."

"I promise we'll find a way to tell the team beforehand, so they can produce a body." He set down his fork and reached for her hands. "I'm sorry, Lisbon, but without leads, this is the only way I can think of. You'll only have to pretend for a little while. And look on the bright side—at least you and Rigsby don't have to play dead this time."

She slid her hands from beneath his and stepped back from the counter, her own appetite suddenly gone.

"There's no proof that Red John is even involved in this, you know," she told him. "Someone's probably playing you. They've been watching you, they know you have a list of some kind."

"Maybe I've been bugged too," he said. "Who knows? But this place is top secret, and bug free, right? We can relax here until the roads are passable, get some much-needed rest. I'm sorry to say it, but you look like hell."

"Because of you, you bastard."

"I am sorry I've put you through this, Teresa. I wouldn't blame you if you wanted to have nothing more to do with me after this."

"Oh, wouldn't that be wonderful?" she said sarcastically, then she reached into her jeans pocket and pulled out a certain note. "Except there's this." She slapped it on the table before him. "Don't you think it's time you told me the truth, Jane?"

He glanced briefly at the note, but then his eyes met hers. "I did," he said softly. "And I'll be damned if I know what to do about it."

**A/N: I would still love to hear what you think! Your reviews keep me pressing on to write more.**


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Thanks once more for your lovely reviews and support of this story. I will continue to take off directly replying until after New Year's Day. Right now, I just want to write and write for my own pleasure (as well as for yours, hopefully.) Thanks for bearing with me.

This chapter contains lots of talking-well, among other things :). Wouldn't it be wonderful if we could just have an hour of Jane and Lisbon in conversation on the show? Once again, I'm thankful to be able to fulfill my own fantasies within the bounds of fanfiction…

**Chapter 4**

"So what you're saying is, you love me."

"Yes," he said simply, but both their pulses had begun to race.

"Oh." She paused, letting his admission sink in. But she still had questions; she was a cop, after all. "And by _love _you mean, not as a brother, or a friend, but as—as—"

"As a lover. Yes, Lisbon, I'm in love with you. Now stop trying to overanalyze this." He held up a hand to forestall her objections. "And I know you love me—I'm not being arrogant; it's pretty hard to miss." He let out a long sigh, smiling a little at her dazed expression. "So here we are," he continued. "Two people in love. Now what? Obviously to actually pursue this thing would be unwise, wouldn't it? Why do you think I tried to take it back when you first questioned me about it?"

"You said you were caught up in the moment," she reminded him. "Maybe that's all it was. Last night, you thought you might die. So you told me again."

"But I'm not taking it back this time. Despite what you think, Teresa, I hate lying to you. It's pointless, really, especially about this. But just because we acknowledge what's between us, doesn't mean we have to act upon it."

She felt oddly hurt by his words, despite the truth in them. "So you think we can just go on with our lives as if nothing has changed?" She shook her head. "I don't buy that."

"Why not? Nothing _has_ changed. I've loved you for years, and you, perhaps a bit longer than that. We've just admitted it to each other. What has to change?"

She looked at him now as if horns had just sprouted from his head. But he watched, fascinated, as her keen mind latched onto something, and her eyes narrowed on him.

"You, Patrick Jane, are a coward."

"Lisbon—"

"No, don't _Lisbon_ me. You want some truth? Well, here's some truth. You're scared to love someone again because you're afraid of losing them. That's totally understandable; I get it. I bet you also feel that you don't deserve it, because you aren't finished punishing yourself for your wife's death."

Jane's face abruptly closed down, and she saw a hint of anger about his eyes.

"There, I brought it up," she said. "The last taboo between us. The only thing stopping you is your damned self-flagellation."

She walked around the counter that had separated them. She could feel his back stiffen when she touched him. Without giving it a second thought, she slowly spun his chair around so he was facing her again, nothing but his fears between them.

"You were attracted to Erica Flynn. As far as I know you didn't act on it. You slept with Lorelei. As far as I know you didn't have any real feelings for her; it was just sex. She was just a stepping stone to Red John, so you said. Somehow you were able to separate your wife from those equations. But now, when there's something real, something deep, you won't let yourself even try? It's been nearly ten years, Jane. If you want to talk about truth, let's really talk about _truth._"

She could see the anger building in him, in the set line of his jaw, in the hardness of his gaze.

"Yes, dammit," he bit out. "This _is _different. And you've quite adeptly pointed out why. I don't want to love you, to tell you that truth you're so fond of hearing. It's too damn painful to contemplate losing you, and I can tell it brings you pain to think of losing me. It's an impossible situation. We deal with death on a daily basis. We risk our lives every day, admittedly I do it more foolishly, but there it is."

"So you think if we just love each other from afar it will make it easier if one of us dies? I think it will make it worse to wonder what might have been. I'd rather grab all we can before it's too late." She felt the tears threatening, and it made her angry to break down again in front of him. "You—_you've _had your true love. Me? I've been engaged once and haven't had a meaningful relationship since. First, I used my job as an excuse. Then my life became consumed by you and your damaged psyche. Looking back now, I _have _loved you for years, but it wasn't until I thought I lost you to Vegas that I realized what you've meant to my life. But I was too afraid to name what I was feeling, thinking that it would take a much stronger woman than I to love a man as complicated as you." She stepped closer to him, and she watched the telltale dilation of his pupils.

"I'm not afraid anymore, though, Jane." She laughed a little. "You, of all people, could be _it_ for me. Painful or not, wise or not, I want to know if this is real, if you are the man I've been waiting for."

He'd been silent through her entire speech, and for once he hadn't tried to conceal the emotions on his face. She'd watched anger, sadness, love, and longing flash over his features, and she had the amazing realization that she might actually be getting through to him. Tentatively, she reached up and touched his cheek, smooth and warm after his recent shave, his hair still damp and dark from the shower, beginning to curl about his temples and forehead. He closed his eyes and leaned into her hand.

"So," she whispered. "Are you that man?"

He opened his eyes, large and pale green in the morning light from the kitchen window.

"I don't know," he said honestly. "But I guess there's only one way to find out."

Pulses racing, they both leaned forward until their lips softly touched. He tilted his head; she tilted hers. They began a tentative advance and retreat, each moving in to taste, to nibble, to experiment. His lips were everything she'd imagined—soft and full, yet sensually firm against hers. She tasted of sweet coffee and still smelled of the outdoors. After a few moments of tender kisses, they both drew back at the same time to look at each other.

"Well, that answers that question," she said, bereft and extremely disappointed. Her lips tingled faintly, but other than that, she'd felt nothing.

"What do you mean? That was some of my best stuff there."

She raised an eyebrow. "Really? And here I'd always imagined you would kiss like a real psychic, use all your mentalist tricks to anticipate my every need and desire. Don't get me wrong," she said, seeing his hurt expression. "It was nice and everything, but I guess it just goes to show we are only meant to be friends."

"Well, if you hadn't approached it like a damn science experiment, maybe relaxed a little bit, you might have been able to get into it more."

"So it's my fault, is it? Are you calling me frigid?"

"No, _uptight_ is a better word."

She rose to her full height, hands on hips, anger suffusing her body. "I can't believe I even for once considered getting involved with you. You're selfish and obsessed, too focused on revenge to have room for anyone else in your life. You were right not to want to pursue this."

"Like I've been telling you…"

But as he watched her now, supremely annoyed with him, face flushed, breasts swiftly rising and falling, lips slightly swollen from their awkward kisses, he felt a familiar stirring of desire. What kind of a sick bastard was he, to be turned on only when he was angry? But then he saw the answering fire in her eyes, and he grinned.

"You still want me though, don't you?"

"No," she lied. "You're mistaking loathing for passion."

He rose from his chair. "Liar. You don't loathe me. Quite the contrary—especially right now." He reached out a hand to encircle her arm.

"Stop it," she told him.

"Shall we try this again?" he asked seductively, pulling her inexorably closer.

"No," she said. "I've had enough disappointment for one day."

He moved to press his lips to her cheek, then nuzzled into her hair. "Do you love me, Lisbon?"

"Not at the moment," she breathed, and he felt her pulse jump beneath his lips. Encouraged, he took the lobe of her ear between his teeth, biting down a bit before laving it apologetically with his tongue. Her hands moved to his biceps for support, as her knees threatened to give way beneath her.

"You love me," he said confidently, and his hands went to her torso, tantalizingly close to her breasts. "I want to hear you say it. _I've_ said it—twice now."

"I don't like to be manipulated," she said shakily, as his hands rose even higher.

"I think you do," he said, kissing his way down her neck. "That's where I went wrong before. You want someone to take charge, to challenge you, to bring out that wild passion I know is just beneath the surface. That's why you fell in love with me, isn't it?"

"No," she said, but her fingers belied her words, resting now in his damp hair, as his mouth lingered in the _V _of her button-up blouse. His hands skimmed up over aching peaks to slowly release one more button. He kissed the revealed skin there, and she felt the tip of his tongue, hot and wet within her cleavage.

She shuddered in his arms, and he unbuttoned yet another button. She felt heat radiate from his mouth to all parts of her body, as he spread open her blouse and kissed the smooth slopes above her bra.

"Say it," she heard him say. He bestowed one more kiss there before he moved back up to her neck, then raised his head to look into her eyes. He cupped her breasts now with warm hands, and she found she could barely think. But he wasn't unaffected either-she could hear his labored breathing over her own-as he stood there, waiting expectantly.

"I love you, all right," she said in impatient surrender. "Now, for God's sake, kiss me for real this time."

"That's my girl."

She felt his smile of triumph against her lips before he plundered her mouth, finding and gently suckling her tongue while she moaned her appreciation. Just as he'd suggested, he took over completely, kissing her like a master, employing every angle, every sensual trick with his lips and tongue until she felt faint with desire.

"Jane," she said as he moved from her lips to allow both of them a breath. "You're making me dizzy…please…"

"Had enough?" he said at her other, neglected ear.

She shook her head _no_, but said _yes_ with a dazed smile.

He hugged her limp body to his, letting her rest against him while they both struggled to calm down.

"You lied before," she whispered.

"Hmmm?" said he, in the midst of kissing her temple sweetly.

"_That_ was your best stuff."

"Aw, Lisbon…I'm only getting started."

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

After a warmed over breakfast, Jane found a pair of rubber boots in the mud room and pulled them on to fetch more firewood. Lisbon laughed when he was so pleased that they fit.

"You mean someone else somewhere has feet as large as yours?"  
"You know what they say about men who have big feet, don't you?" He asked, waggling his eyebrows as he paused in the doorway.

"Big shoes?" she suggested slyly.

"Exactly," he said with a grin, wrapping himself in his borrowed blanket and trotting out into the snow to complete his errand. She listened to his whooping reaction to the cold and the falling snow, amused and touched that he found such delight in small things.

"Rigsby found your other shoe, by the way," she told him later, as he arranged the firewood on the grate in his socks. His single brown shoe rested on the hearth to dry and she smiled every time she looked at it. She was sitting on the couch, watching his every move, admiring the easy grace with which he did everything. She blushed at that thought, allowing herself to wonder how that trait would transfer to the bedroom.

"Did he rescue it?"

"Huh?" she said, having lost her train of thought as he bent over before her. Damn, the man looked good in sweatpants.

He turned and caught her checking out his ass, then smiled wickedly at her. "My shoe, Lisbon. Did Rigsby get my shoe?"

"Oh. I don't know. I didn't think to ask when Cho called earlier." That was one of the most difficult conversations she'd ever had. She had to continue to act upset at Jane's "death" and tell her men to call off the search in light of the continued storm. She wanted desperately to tell them that Jane was alive, share with them—or with anyone-the intense happiness she'd found at his return.

Jane finished with the fire in silent contemplation, while Lisbon tried not to fall asleep again on the damned couch. She was coming to understand Jane's affinity for that type of furniture. Soon Jane joined her to admire the cheerful blaze dancing in the fireplace. He leaned back on the couch, laying his arm along the back, his fingers playing idly with her hair.

"I'm sorry you're having to lie to them," he said solemnly. "But I'm convinced this is the best way. I've come to believe that whoever is doing this is an insider."

"Inside the CBI? You mean Red John's mole?"

"I don't know. Think about it, though. I've only ever discussed my list with you, and have only written in my notebook in the attic or a CBI vehicle. CBI Headquarters is swept for bugs and bombs every week, right?"

"Yeah, and the vehicles too," she added.

"You get my point then? Who else but an insider could evade those sweeps, or even have access to the attic or a vehicle to plant a bug? And an insider would also have the ability to monitor our phones and texts."

She saw the logic in his words, but the thought that another person she might know and trust could be spying on Jane with plans to kill him, made her feel sick inside.

"This would also explain why someone is trying to make your death look like an amateur, or like an accident. Anything professional might be traced to someone in law enforcement. But why not hire a hit man? Get it done right on the first try?"

Jane smiled wryly. "Thanks, Lisbon. It's almost as if you've had prior thoughts yourself of how to plan my demise."

She grinned. "I plead the Fifth."

"Those are some good questions, though," he continued thoughtfully. "My guess would be that this is very personal to my killer. They want to mess with me first, torture me with fear or paranoia, so they're doing it themselves, not hiring someone else. The meeting at the rest stop was to be the final showdown, so to speak. I don't think they planned to push me over a cliff, but the opportunity presented itself, and they took it. I'm thinking they merely planned to shoot me and be done with it."

Lisbon felt a chill run through her, and it took her back to the horror she'd felt when Cho and Rigsby had discovered his shoe, half-buried in the snow. He'd almost died, again. She'd come so close to missing this time with him, to never having experienced the thrill of his kisses, the sheer joy of their mutual confessions.

"Hey," he said, moving to be closer to her. "I didn't die, remember?"

She snuggled into his side, allowing him to wrap his arm around her.

"So much for your nine lives theory."

"I suppose I could be wrong. A man with my brilliance and fortitude must have ten, eleven lives at least."

She tried to smile, but couldn't quite find the strength. Instead, she buried her face to his chest, breathing him in, listening with gratitude to the reassuring beat of his heart. Then she felt his warm hand lifting her chin, and he bent down slowly to kiss her lips. From then it was a natural progression to find herself sitting on his lap sideways, kissing him deeply as his hands slipped beneath the back of her top.

There was no awkwardness this time. Indeed, it was as if they'd been kissing their entire lives. They were both amazed at how natural it all seemed, how easily they'd gone from friends to burgeoning lovers in the space of hours. She wanted him, loved, him, needed to have this physical contact to reassure herself that he was really there with her, that this was actually happening after so many years. But somehow it still felt like things were happening too fast.

He caught her unspoken cue and paused to brush her hair back from her face. The sound of their excited breathing echoed in the room, hearts still pounding in unison.

"Too fast?" he asked, reading her mind.

"Yes. I'm sorry. I don't mean to lead you on."

He gave her a small smile of understanding. "I don't think any man would accuse you of being a tease. That's not your style."

She looked at him like she always did when he acted the know-it-all.

"Oh? And how would you know my style where this type of thing is concerned?"

"_This type of thing?_ Geeze, Lisbon, you can't even say it. Sex. Lovemaking. _Intimacy_." He actually used air quotes to annoy her. "It just proves my point. You're a woman who may be cautious at first to go after what you want, but once you put your mind to it…Well, take Mashburn for instance."

She gasped in surprise, then closed her mouth into a firm line. His eyebrows rose in amusement.

"Aw, don't go all missish on me. I'm well aware of your little dalliance with Walter Mashburn."

"How—how do you know about that? I didn't tell anybody, and I highly doubt Walter did, if he knows what's good for him," she finished angrily.

"Cool your jets, little rocket. I was also there in his hotel room that night, remember? Mashburn was obviously hiding someone in the bedroom, and he reeked of your perfume. Besides, you wore the same clothes to work the next morning."  
She ducked her head, mortified. "You knew I was there? Oh, God. That's so embarrassing."

He laughed. "No need to be embarrassed. Have you seen _my_ choice of partners lately?" Before she could get her two cents in on that rich subject, he continued: "But we've gotten off topic here. What I was trying to tell you is that you, my love, are the perfect woman."

She snorted in a very unladylike manner. "Flattery is not going to get me into bed any faster, Jane."

"Oh? And what will?" He dipped his head to nuzzle her ear—a very erogenous zone for his little boss. "How about this?"

She groaned. "Oh…Jane…stop…Hey, you were telling me how perfect I am…"

His sensual chuckle made her shiver, but he lifted his head and kissed her lightly on the nose. "That's right, I was. And how are you perfect, you're wondering? Back to the example of Mashburn."

"Must we?" she asked painfully.

He ignored her weak protest. "You played hard to get with Mashburn—refusing his invitations, insulting him, not putting up with his crap. That's different from teasing. Teasing implies that you were unwilling to see things through. No, you were just stoking the fire so that when you eventually gave in-boy must he have felt like the luckiest man in the world."

"Psh."

"No, don't scoff, Lisbon. I speak the truth. Then you got up in the morning and went to work, leaving him with neither hope nor expectations of another encounter—just like a man would have done. He must have been totally gob- smacked." He laughed just thinking about it. "Poor Walter. Got a taste of his own medicine, and damned if he wanted you even more because of it."

"He called me twice a day for a week," she admitted. "My apartment was full of flowers."

"I'm not surprised. A man likes the hunt, likes his prey to be challenging. But I bet when you gave yourself to him, it was one-hundred percent, am I right? Fulfilled his every desire, yet left him wanting more."

She blushed.

"And you could have this powerful, wealthy man at your beck and call just by crooking your little finger. Perfect," he concluded in admiration.

"So what does this have to do with us?" she asked him, trying to change the subject.

"You've been slowly seducing me for years, Lisbon. Challenging me, arguing, debating, mothering…flirting."

She couldn't deny it. "It was not a conscious thing, believe me."

"Oh, I do. Because I've been right there with you, egging it on—mostly subconsciously; sometimes not, though. You were the prize I thought I was never worthy enough to win. Bantering, being your friend—those things I could safely do. But when I saw how far you would go for me, despite all I'd put you through, that your loyalty and friendship knew no bounds—I realized that it was now beyond my control to stay away from you. I loved you, and you loved me, and that was a temptation beyond even my self-control."

Lisbon shifted in his lap, and she was amused to see the pained expression there at her movements. She was quite aware of the evidence of his desire beneath her bottom-something else apparently beyond his control. She stilled her hips, then kissed him tenderly beneath the healing scrape on his cheek.

"I've changed my mind," she said softly. "This isn't too fast at all."

"What are you saying?" he asked, not daring to hope.

"I've almost lost you on several occasions. I don't want another day to go by without…knowing…"

"Gathering ye rosebuds, eh, Teresa?" he whispered, with a spark of desire in his eyes.

"Something like that."

"_Carpe diem*_, my love. My second favorite Latin expression."

"And your first?" she asked, kissing now his jaw, then moving to test _his_ ear's vulnerability. She smiled as he shivered and drew in an impassioned breath.

"_Coitus…more…ferarum**,_" he said, exhaling tremulously.

She stilled in her exploration of his neck. "Bear with me a minute…I made a _B _in Latin."

While he waited, he entertained himself by returning to the neglected buttons on her blouse, a beatific smile on his face belying his sensual actions.

"Well, I know what _coitus _means," she reasoned, giving him a disproving look. "_More…ferarum_…hmmm…"

Jane wished he'd had a camera to capture the very second she'd figured out the meaning of the phrase. Her eyes widened, and she socked him in the arm. "Jane!"

He laughed, and more quickly than she'd thought he could move, had her pinned beneath him on the couch. She looked down to find that her blouse was fully open, and he was working on the front closure of her bra—with his teeth.

"_Cras es noster,***_ Teresa," he murmured. His breath was warm against her bare skin as he released her breasts to his admiring gaze. "_Cras es noster_."

A/N I had some complaints about cliffies, lol, so hopefully this chapter made up for it a bit. Back to the intrigue in the next chapter, however. Thanks for reading. I'd love to hear what you think!

*_Carpe diem_ means "seize the day."

**_ Coitus more ferarum _means "congress in the manner of the beasts," aka: having sex doggy-style.

***_ Cras es noster _means "the future is ours."

That's your Latin lesson for the day. Now, go out and impress your friends!


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: The beginning of this chapter hovers around the "M" rating, so please be advised. That being said, thanks again for the great reviews for the last chapter Those of you who don't have accounts, it is really easy and free to sign up. That way, when I get back to answering reviews, I can talk to you personally. Thanks once more for reading!

**Chapter 5**

They made love on the soft rug before the fire, and Jane instantly regretted that his first time with a woman since his wife hadn't been with Lisbon. With Lorelei, it had been well, _quick_, but he owed that mainly to a decade with barely any physical contact of any kind. But beyond that, he'd had to force a connection with Red John's girl that he didn't really feel in order to get to Red John himself, make himself behave like a man who wanted to have sex with a murderer's minion. Even with his biofeedback methods, however, his body's reaction had far exceeded his head's, and while he'd been able to make it good for Lorelei, he had been almost embarrassed at how quickly it had all happened for him.

So now, in the glow of the firelight, Jane strove to please Lisbon and himself both. He would take it slowly—take _her_ slowly. In some ways his encounter with Lorelei might have saved him some embarrassment with Lisbon, but still, his night with Lorelei had felt very much like he'd lost his virginity again, and he lamented that it hadn't been with someone he loved.

Jane pushed those thoughts of Lorelei from his mind—easy to do with Lisbon's beautiful body undulating beneath him. Her eyes compelled him—a soft, forest green in the firelight—and he watched in fascination when they widened as he slowly slid into her, a low moan emitting from her throat. Her small hands grasped his shoulders, and he felt her short nails making half moons on his skin when he began to move out again. He reached down to adjust her thighs, silently directing her to bend her knees so he could go even deeper.

Sweat gathered on his forehead and back as he forced himself to keep his rhythm smooth and slow, while he gauged her reaction by the intensity of her gaze. He could tell she wanted him to pick up his pace, but he knew that his slow start would pay big dividends in the end. He had to smile as she bucked her slim hips in encouragement.

"Jane," she gasped, "please…you're driving me crazy…"

"Patience," he said, knowing how that word in the past had so irritated her. He took a moment to bend and touch her lips with his. "Breathe."

She groaned in frustration, but made an effort to match her breathing with his.

He pulled his body slowly back before pushing again into her slick tightness, where he could feel her every muscle contracting around him with each stroke. Desperately, she pressed her heels against his buttocks in hopes of moving things along, but he didn't succumb. It was sheer torture for him as well, especially when her movements took him impossibly deeper, but he was nothing if not tenacious when there was something he wanted. He glanced down, saw her small, high breasts, wet on their hard tips from his mouth, damp between them with perspiration. That sight alone was enough for him to end this now, but he made himself pause, collect himself, and continue his steady motions.

Just when he felt they were both on the edge of madness, his tempo increased, and she cried out in relief that he was finally giving her what she wanted most. Her eyes squeezed shut as she became lost in the feeling, her heart speeding up to match her panting breaths. Then he slowed down again and she literally felt like killing him.

"Jane…oh, God…please."

"Look at me," he said, his chest heaving. "Look at me and I'll go on."

She opened her eyes, and he was pleased to see them dazed with passion. True to his word, he resumed, reaching down with both hands to steady her hips while he plunged rapidly in and out of her body. Never again did her eyes leave his, and when she began to shudder around him, it was the most intense experience of his life. He followed her soon after, and his cries of ecstasy echoed in the room. He stopped just short of falling heavily on top of her, exhausted and momentarily sated, but then he took her lips and kissed her until they both felt him growing hard again within her.

"No way," she said in wonder.

"Is that a comment on my age," he asked, his eyes lit with amused excitement.

"No," she panted. "On mine."

"What…can't keep up, old lady?"

Just as he'd hoped, challenge flashed in her eyes, and before he knew it, she had rolled him onto his back, still joined with his body. He laughed in sheer joy, and he watched her eyes soften in tenderness.

"I love you," she whispered against his mouth. "But it's my turn at the wheel."

He linked his hands beneath his head and looked up at her smugly. "Go ahead then, my little control freak; I can take it."

When she rose above him, then sat back down heavily, he had to grit his teeth against the sublime pleasure of it, had to press his head against his hands to refrain from taking over again.

"Uh-uh," she chastened. "Open those eyes, Mister."

He opened one eye, his heart skipping a beat when he saw the mischievous intent in hers.

"If you think I'm calling you _Boss_ after this, you have…another thing…sonofa…aww…"

Xxxxxxxxxxxxx

Later, in a more comfortable bed (because after she was done with him, he claimed his bones had aged ten years), Jane absently smoothed Lisbon's hair as she lay her cheek on his bare chest. They could hear the sound of sleet clicking against the side of the house, and they reveled in the warm cocoon they'd created in the center of the queen-sized bed.

"Well, Boss," he said with a grin. "We've put it off as long as we can."

"Yes," she said, "you certainly did." He felt her smile against his skin, reveled in the contented way she caressed his taut abdomen.

"I don't mean that. Still, you have to admit there's something great about delayed gratification."

"Hmm," she hummed in agreement, in remembrance of the best sex she'd ever had.

If she could have seen his satisfied smirk, she would have hit him. "What I meant was, before we go home, we need to plan my funeral."

Her hand stilled, and her smile abruptly faded.

"No."

"Oh, come on. This should be fun."

"You're seriously warped if you think I'd find any aspect of your death _fun_."

"Lisbon," he said, then pulled her up so he could look into her eyes. "I'm not really dead, remember? You know as well as I do that my killer might not be able to resist coming to see his handiwork. That's what psychopaths do."

She considered him a minute, and after swallowing a heart that seemed lodged in her throat, she tried to think of things from the perspective of a CBI agent.

"Okay," she sighed. "But it will have to be a Catholic service." She grinned. "In that little church where you popped up again seven months ago."

"Catholic?" he said distastefully. "They're so upright and formal."

"You said before I would likely be the one planning it, and you know damned well I'd want every last chance to save your miserable soul."

"Well, then I want bagpipes."

"Seriously?"

"Yeah. If I can't have a Viking sendoff, I'll take a manly Scottish one."

"Let me guess—playing _Amazing Grace._"

"The one religious song I can relate to."

She raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"'I once was lost, but now I'm found,'" he quoted, and he kissed her upturned nose with unspoken feeling.

She turned to find a better position to kiss him on the mouth, loving this man more with every touch, with every word. After a few minutes, she cuddled into his side, each lost in their own weighty thoughts.

"What was the service like, for…for Angela and Charlotte?" she asked tentatively, and he felt her pulse quicken at the once taboo question.

"There wasn't one," he said simply.

She seemed shocked, then: "Oh."

"I think a few of Angela's friends had some sort of a wake for them, but I wasn't there. I was what you might politely say, _inconsolable_." In truth, he was having an emotional breakdown, ranging from hysterical crying to incredible rage. He'd practically wrecked their house, once the police tape had gone down. Plus, he was drunk off his ass and remained so for two weeks straight. It wasn't long afterwards that he'd admitted himself to the mental hospital.

"Six months later," he told her, "I received a bill for their tombstones. Angela's brother had ordered them and had them placed at the cemetery."

"I'm sorry," was all she could think to say.

"Me too. But that was a long time ago, Teresa. I don't want you to feel like you're competing with them. I've come to find that one can love someone deeply more than once in a lifetime."

He felt her tears on his neck. "I agree," she said quietly. He touched her chin to make her look at him again. He leaned down to kiss her damp cheek.

"Hey, don't be sad. I've had a breakthrough here. A year ago, I wouldn't have been able to talk about them like this, with anyone. I won't lie—it still hurts. But you make it hurt less."

Their kisses grew this time into something much more, and it was some time before either of them could speak again. Lisbon was just drifting off to sleep when she heard Jane's voice.

"I hate long eulogies. I wonder if Cho would give mine."

Her body shook with silent laughter, and they both fell asleep with smiles on their faces.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"Okay, we've got canned soup, canned chili, canned ravioli, canned tuna, spaghetti with jarred sauce, macaroni and cheese, Ramen noodles—you get the idea," Lisbon called from the walk-in pantry.

A morning and afternoon of intense lovemaking had made both of them starving. Jane joined her inside the small room, then pulled her back against his chest, wrapping his arms around her as he surveyed the various cans and boxes.

"Hmmm," he said against her freshly washed hair. He was remembering how he was the one who had washed it in the shower earlier, and his hands drifted to her waist as he breathed her in.

She smiled, for once appreciating his one-track mind. "Jane?" she prompted. "Dinner?"

"Oh, yeah. That. I wonder, can a man subsist on Lisbon ears?" he asked, brushing her hair aside to do a little pre-dinner nibbling.

She felt her knees weakening, as they always did when he focused his attention there. "Well, you know the old expression about living on love."

"Hm?"

"You can't," she insisted, turning in his arms.

"I'd like to try though," he said, moving to devour her lips.

Her stomach growled as if on cue, and he chuckled when she flushed in embarrassment. He dropped impulsively to his knees before her, pulling up her t-shirt to kiss her hungry belly. Her hands went to his curly hair as he traced her abdomen with his tongue. "Delicious here too." Then her stomach spoke again and he grinned.

"Okay, I'm getting the message loud and clear, now." He pulled down her top and bounced up again. "My vote is for spaghetti, but not that unsophisticated jarred sauce. Grab the canned tomatoes."

"What? Are you cooking or something?"

"Nope. Supervising."

"I thought we established that _I _was the boss."

"Only in the bedroom, sweetheart." And his wide smile made her heart turn over in her chest.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

They were awakened in the middle of the night by a loud rapping on the front door. Lisbon was instantly awake, grabbing her nightshirt and her gun.

"Someone's here," said Lisbon.

"Hm?" came the sleepy man in her bed.

"Get up and get dressed."

Jane turned over with a groan. "But ma, I don't wanna go to school," he complained sleepily.

The knocking became louder, and Jane sat up, fully alert now, and reached for his sweatpants.

Lisbon stalked into the living room on bare feet, Jane close behind.

"Boss! It's Van Pelt! Are you in there?"

Lisbon lowered her weapon and unlocked the door. The redhead entered after stomping the snow from her boots on the welcome mat, shivering in the warmth of the safe-house.

Lisbon found herself enveloped in a cold hug. "How are you doing?" Van Pelt asked sympathetically.

Lisbon had to think a moment what she meant. Of course: she still thought Jane was dead.

"I'm—"

The kitchen light suddenly flickered on and Van Pelt beheld Jane, shirtless and barefoot, grinning like the cat that had been in the cream.

"Jane!"

She dropped her arms from around Lisbon and ran to Jane, bestowing upon him the same treatment. "You're alive! But how? When did you get here? Oh, thank God!"

"Well, hello, Grace," he said jovially, politely disentangling himself. "The reports of my death, etcetera, etcetera."

Van Pelt paused, mentally putting on her CBI cap, to evaluate her surroundings. Here were her boss and her colleague, half-naked and seemingly at ease with one another. They looked happy, if slightly embarrassed. Jane watched her in amusement as she took it all in, and her spark of understanding brought a smile to both their faces.

"So," she ventured. "You obviously aren't dead. Why didn't you tell us?"

"Well, to be fair, I did fall over the railing and was shot at, but I decided to play dead in order to flush out my would-be killer. I personally think it's a brilliant plan, but the boss has some…reservations…"

"You could have told us you were alive," she said accusingly. "Cho, Rigsby and I have been terribly worried. We tried to call you, Boss, but it kept going to voicemail."

"My phone went dead earlier," Lisbon explained. "I was hoping you would come and rescue us soon before we had to hitch a ride into town."

"I'm afraid my killer might be monitoring our calls," Jane said. "I'm sorry if you were worried." He actually sounded sincere.

"How'd you get back here?" asked Van Pelt.

"I hitched a ride—well, two rides. I figured this was a good place to hide out. Safe house and all."

"Yes," agreed Van Pelt with a knowing smirk. "It looks very cozy here."

Jane grinned at her obvious meaning, along with her appreciative appraisal of his shirtless form. Lisbon disguised her discomfort by going into full cop mode, commanding even in an old football jersey. "I take it they've cleared the freeway," she said to her agent.

"Yeah, on this side. Cho and Rigsby had to go back to Sacramento taking the long way around. I had already left for here when they called me. They said the Tahoe police would have to wait until the snow melts before they could drag the lake for Jane's, uh, body."

"Is that the official report?" asked Lisbon.

"Yeah, Brenda Shettrick already spoke to the media. It was on the ten o'clock news tonight."

"Good," said Jane, pleased. "We proceed with the plan."

"Shouldn't we tell Bertram?"wondered Van Pelt.

"Absolutely not—"

"Yes—"

Jane and Lisbon gave their separate opinions at the same time.

"Look," reasoned Jane. "I don't trust this guy as far as Lisbon could throw him." He ignored Lisbon's offended glare.

"But he covered for us last time," said Lisbon.

"Only because the FBI was in the wrong and the CBI would have looked bad if he hadn't. No, I'll cover you guys. We have my funeral, and then I'll dramatically appear, like Banquo's ghost, as if it had all been a huge mistake, and none of you had been the wiser. Once I spy the killer, of course."

Van Pelt looked at Lisbon. "I take it this was all his idea."

"Yes. But it could work. As crazy and stupid as his plans are, they usually do."

"Thank you, Lisbon," he said without offense at the backhanded compliment.

Van Pelt grew silent, looking speculatively from one to the other of the lovers, neither of whom were either confirming or denying.

"Well. Okay then," Van Pelt said awkwardly. "You guys want to head back to Sacramento tonight?"

Jane and Lisbon looked at one another, reluctant now to leave their romantic little cocoon to face the real world.

"I guess we should," Lisbon replied, her eyes still on Jane's. "Just let us get dressed."

"Take your time," Van Pelt said, wandering into the kitchen in search of something hot to drink. She heard one bedroom door shut down the hall, and she grinned again as she set the teakettle on to boil.

"It's about freakin' time," she said to herself. "Good for you, Lisbon. Good for you."

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

They all agreed that the logical place to hide Jane was at Lisbon's apartment. Van Pelt called Rigsby and Cho to say Lisbon was back home, and that she needed consoling over Jane's death. They headed right over, even though it was after midnight.

"As luck would have it," Van Pelt told Jane as they awaited the arrival of the rest of the team. "I picked up your dry-cleaning today. It's in the SUV. I'll just run out and get it. Not that you don't look smashing in sweatpants and rubber boots."

"Thank you, Grace," Jane said with a smile.

Alone for a moment, Jane reached for Lisbon's hand where she sat beside him on her couch.

"Grace will be discreet," he said, reassuringly. "Well, she'll tell Rigbsy and Cho, but that's it. I'm sure there's some office pool, but they won't collect until after I've risen from the dead."

"Good Lord. Well, I guess there hasn't really been time to talk about what this will mean to our jobs."

"I wouldn't think the same rules that applied to Rigsby and Van Pelt would apply to me, given I'm a consultant and not an official member of the unit."

"That would be my understanding of the regulation, but I'm not sure. I'd have to ask Human Resources. Or Bertram," she said, cringing at the very thought of it.

Jane laughed. "Won't that be a kick in his extra starchy pants? The more I think of it, the more I can't wait to tell him."

"Tell him what, exactly?"

So, she needed some more reassurance, some label on their relationship, sort of like a job description. She was so very CBI.

"That I'm in love with his top agent, of course. That he could fire me if he needed to, but that wouldn't stop me from being with you any more than it would stop me from pursuing Red John. And I certainly won't let you take the fall for this if it the reg is interpreted to mean we are forbidden involvement and one of us has to leave the team."

She squeezed his hand, then released it when she heard Van Pelt at the door again. "Good to know," she whispered. They would have to continue this conversation at another time.

Rigsby and Cho were considerably more irritated with Jane than Van Pelt had been, probably because they had spent all of the night before looking for Jane in the driving snow or trying to catch a few winks in a noisy truck stop.

"You could have called," said Rigsby, echoing Van Pelt's earlier complaint. "Don't tell me you think someone's tapping your cell phone."

"Well, I'm being bugged somehow," Jane replied. He looked at Lisbon, who nodded her encouragement. He took a deep breath and told them about his list of Red John suspects. Cho had already known, of course, but Rigsby and Van Pelt looked completely horrified that Jane, and possibly even the rest of the team, might have met Red John.

"You think Red John is involved with these murder attempts?" Rigsby said. "Doesn't sound like him."

"No, it doesn't," agreed Lisbon. "But whoever it is wants that list too."

"Either they want to know who Red John is for their own purposes, or they want to know how much I've figured out," added Jane.

"Where's the list now?" asked Cho.

Jane reached over for the paper sack containing his borrowed clothes. His notebook containing the list was right on top.

"It was at the safe-house the whole time?" asked Lisbon. "Why didn't you take it with you to that meeting? They might have killed you when you couldn't produce it."

Jane rolled his eyes. "That didn't seem to stop them, did it? Besides, if I was killed, I wanted to be sure someone I trusted would have that list."

"Dammit, Jane," Lisbon muttered.

"Well, we've got other problems now," said Cho. "The FBI is sending in their team to help find Jane's killer. They'll be in the office in the morning."

"Crap," said Lisbon. "Who is it?"

"Mancini and Norris. Oh, and Agent Kirkland from Homeland Security dropped in to check in with you, Boss. He was concerned about how you might be handling Jane's death."

Jane recognized an odd stiffening in Lisbon's demeanor, and all kinds of alarms went off in his head when she wouldn't look at him.

"What's Homeland Security got to do with this?" asked Jane, but his eyes remained on Lisbon.

"No idea," said Rigsby.

"Why the hell would they send Mancini and Norris?" Lisbon complained. "Alexa Shultz knows damn well our teams don't get along. What help will they be?"

"With Lorelei Martins still at large, I bet they're thinking she or Red John had something to do with Jane's murder," suggested Cho. "Since the FBI was given the Red John files, they think they have jurisdiction if that's the case."

"Ha, I'll bet," said Rigsby sarcastically.

For once, Lisbon didn't chide them about the FBI being a fine organization or that they needed to be cooperative.

"Dear God, what a mess," said Lisbon, her face in her hands.

"Don't let this throw you," said Jane, reaching out to touch her lightly on the shoulder. "We stick to the plan."

They explained the funeral idea, and Jane was surprised when Cho and Rigsby were completely onboard with it.

"Seems sound to me," Cho said.

"Good," said Jane.

"We'll try to schedule a memorial for day after tomorrow," said Lisbon. "Since they can't drag the lake yet, I guess we'll have to have a service without a body."

"Well, not as realistic, but guess it'll have to do," said Jane.

"Okay, you three go home and get some sleep," said Lisbon. "Big day tomorrow for all of us."

Jane and Lisbon stood to escort them out.

"Thanks guys. I mean it."

"Glad you're not dead, man," said Rigsby, slapping Jane on the back.

"Thanks, Wayne."

Cho only nodded, which was enough for Jane to know he hadn't exactly wished for his death, and Van Pelt gave him another hug.

"Oh, by the way," said Jane before they left. "Did you guys happen to get my shoe?"

"It's evidence from a crime scene," said Cho dryly, and closed the door behind them.

A/N: Okay, you are cordially invited to attend the funeral of Patrick Jane, next chapter. Hope to see you there!


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: Let me just say, writing a funeral is a difficult thing, especially for one who isn't really dead. I hope I hit the right notes. Thanks again for the past reviews of this fic. Happy New Year, everyone! That means I'll be back to answering individual reviews, so please log in or create an account. I'd love to get to know you better!

**Chapter 6**

The alarm went off way too soon the next morning, and Lisbon growled at the radio station's annoying song selection for seven a.m.: _Walking on Sunshine. _She pounded on the snooze button and lay back in bed, heart racing. Beside her, Jane chuckled at her unfounded anger at the inanimate object. He'd always know she wasn't a morning person, given her usual crankiness at the office before she had her coffee, but seeing her close up first thing was an amusing revelation.

"Good morning, Little Miss Grumpypants," he said, spooning her body against his. "It's a wonderful day to be alive, isn't it?"

"Said the man who doesn't have to go to work because he's conveniently dead."

He nestled his face into her hair, his hands wandering over her bare stomach and caressing her breasts.

"You could stay home too," he whispered enticingly. "Tell everyone you're too overcome with grief to come in to work."

Her hands covered his wandering ones. "Aw, but wouldn't that be a bit out of character for me? Everyone would expect that I'd make it my sole mission in life to find your killer."

Jane sighed, and, his hands thwarted, pulled her more tightly against his burgeoning desire. She gasped a little, and Jane grinned at the effect they had on each other.

"True. Your loyalty is admirable. And I suppose you do have a big day, dealing with the FBI and following up with Agent Kirkland."

Jane was testing to make sure he hadn't been imagining things the night before, and her sudden tension confirmed his theory.

"So what's going on between you and Kirkland?" he prompted.

"Nothing," she lied.

He undulated his hips and she moaned softly. His hands slipped from beneath their restraints to wander further south, finding her already anticipating where his persuasive movements were leading them.

"Tell me, Teresa. You have a thing for tall, dark, Mafioso types?" He dipped his hips and pushed against her teasingly, as her breathing quickened.

"No…Jane…and you don't have to torture me to make me talk, for God's sake."

She turned on her side to face him, finding his eyes filled with an odd mixture of desire and curiosity. There was also a hint of possessiveness in his blue-green depths, and her woman's heart squeezed in wonder.

"We've gone for coffee a couple of times," she admitted coyly. "And then there was the occasional lunch."

"Lunch?" he said evenly. "How about…_dinner_?"

"We were working up to that."

Jane paused, wishing suddenly that he wasn't "dead," so he could stake his claim in no uncertain terms.

"I find him charming and stimulating company," she continued, milking this for all it was worth.

"Oh, really," he said, and he was suddenly on top of her, framing her face with his hands. "How…_stimulating_?"

She smiled then, and decided to put him out of his misery. "Not nearly as stimulating as you," she said truthfully, and pulled his head down for his kiss.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxx

As she was dressing for work, Jane lay back against the pillows, watching her.

"You shouldn't wear any makeup," he directed her. "You should look as tired and heartbroken as possible." He gestured helpfully to her face. "Maybe use something to put some darker circles under your eyes."

She paused in brushing her hair, meeting his gaze in her dresser mirror. "You're seriously giving me makeup tips. Is this to improve my acting job, or so Kirkland won't find me so devastatingly attractive?"

She was inordinately pleased that she'd caught him in a scheme. He actually blushed faintly, but rushed to cover his momentary lapse. "I think I've proven this morning that Kirkland doesn't have a chance. But I do want you to be careful around him nonetheless. There's something rather…unctuous about him. And don't forget," he said meaningfully, "I've shaken his hand."

Lisbon rolled her eyes. "You've also shaken _my_ hand. And Cho's. And Rigsby's. And Van Pelt's. And a million others over the course of a decade." She set down her brush and walked over to sit on the bed.

He shrugged. "Just sayin'."

"Look, you could put a stop to this right now, Jane. Miraculously rise from the dead today and go mark your territory around my office."

He actually looked like he was considering it. "Nah, Homeland Security be damned, this is the best way to flush out my killer."

"Okay then, let me handle this mess you've laid at my feet. Now, promise me you won't leave this apartment. No phone calls unless it's an emergency." She bent to kiss him.

"I'll try not to actually die of boredom."

"You could do the laundry," she suggested helpfully against his lips. "Or write some more in your little notebook."

"Stop patronizing me, woman," he gruffed. "I'll find something to occupy my time. Maybe write my own obituary."

"Oh, now that would make some interesting reading," she grinned. She caught sight of the clock out of the corner of her eye. "Dammit! I gotta go. Someone made me run late this morning, and I've got FBI agents to placate and a funeral to plan."

"I didn't hear any complaining," he said, flashing his smile and looking way too sexy for his own good, bare-chested and relaxed against her flowery bedding.

She kissed him again—couldn't resist it actually. "Be good," she said. "I'll see you later."

"Teresa. Thanks for doing this for me. It'll pay off, I promise."

"Don't make promises you can't keep, Jane." She was remembering that day in the desert, when all hell had broken loose and Luther Wainwright was killed.

He grabbed her hand before she could get away from him. "How about if I promise to love you more every day? I'm certain I can keep that one."

She stilled, looking down on the rare sight of a humble and sincere Patrick Jane.

Despite her neatly ironed clothes and freshly brushed hair, she went to him again, and he gladly welcomed her back into his arms, kissing her until she was well and truly late for work.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Lisbon arrived back at her apartment around seven o'clock that night, mentally and physically exhausted. She unlocked the door, noting by her earlier placement of the single hair on the doorframe that it hadn't been opened during the day-an old cop's trick. Unless of course, Jane had known this trick and made it look like he hadn't left. She sighed. She wouldn't put it past him.

Inside, she found him on her couch, reading one of her books on criminal justice. She wondered uncharitably after the day she'd just had if he was learning anything.

"Hi, honey, you're home!" said Jane, immediately putting down his book and jumping up to enclose her in a hug. She dropped her briefcase and a small bundle on the table in the foyer.

"You feel pretty good for a dead guy," she murmured, closing her eyes and relaxing into in his embrace, grateful beyond measure that she didn't have to pretend anymore, at least not for the rest of this day.

"Sorry," he said sheepishly, pulling away after lightly kissing her. "Tough day?"

"You don't know the half of it. I'm sure glad Van Pelt knows you're really alive because she's been a tremendous help. She's jumped into the funeral plans almost as passionately as she did her own wedding."

"Don't jinx it, Lisbon. You know how that turned out."

"Well, you can rest—or not rest, I suppose—assured that it will be a lovely service."

"Anyone suspicious?" he asked her, motioning that she sit on the couch. He went to the refrigerator to retrieve a bottle of chardonnay she'd forgotten she had, and poured her a full glass.

"I don't think so. It would be nice if you could be there to try to read these people. Mancini wasn't too broken up about your death, let me tell you. I thought I heard him say to Norris that you probably had it coming. The bastard." She took a soothing sip of wine.

Jane grinned and joined her on the couch. "How touching."

"Yeah, well Brenda Shettrick is pulling her hair out with the media, and when she finds out you're really alive, she'll make you wish you were dead. And I've been fielding sympathy calls all day. I have to say, though, Jane, more than half of them share Mancini's opinion. I suppose that's what you get for being such an ass."

Jane wasn't offended. "If being an ass gets the bad guys, I'm okay with that."

She grew quiet, drinking her wine, lost in thought.

"I think I've got a penny here somewhere," Jane said. "Anything you want to talk about?"

She looked at him, and he could see just how wearing the day had been for her.

"This really sucks, Jane. I can't wait until tomorrow's over."

He took her empty hand, bringing it his lips. "I know. Believe it or not, I feel the same way. This really isn't much fun for me, either. Playing dead isn't as fun as I thought it would be." His face became cloudy. "And if I'm wrong about this, it means someone is going to find out I'm alive and I'm still on their hit list."

She nodded. "That's the greatest risk, isn't it?"

"Yes. And suddenly, the idea of dying is a bigger fear than it used to be, now that I have something to live for." He gently kissed her cheek.

_Something __**else**__ to live for_, she thought, but didn't correct him. Up until now, he'd lived only for revenge.

"Well, we'll both just have to get through your funeral alive then," she said, forcing herself to sound more positive.

"Now, that's more like it," Jane said dryly. "I love your optimism."

"And I'd love something to eat. Dinner?" she asked hopefully.

"Good thing we brought the fresh food from the safe-house. Your cupboards are bare, my dear."

"I haven't had much time to go shopping lately," she said wryly.

They dined on French toast, and Jane brought out his project from the day. He'd managed to get on her computer and search for St. Mark's church, the site of his upcoming memorial service. He'd even printed off a couple of pages. Lisbon was duly impressed at his unusual use of modern technology.

"Since St. Mark's is an historical landmark, there are floor plan guides and current pictures of the interior online," he told her, showing her the print-offs. "I'll come long before the service and hide here."

He pointed to the second floor on one side of the church. "See, there are rooms here, with windows overlooking the chapel. I can peek through them and have a bird's eye view of the door, the pews, and the pulpit. If I see anyone suspicious, I'll contact you through an earpiece. What do you think?"

"If someone sees you, this will be a disaster, that's what I think."

"Don't worry. Where'd all your lovely optimism go? Oh, did you bring that package I asked Cho for?"

She nodded to the table in the entryway where she'd dropped the small bundle. She'd given Cho a sealed note that morning, from Jane, who'd made her promise not to read it. When Jane's eyes lit up with excitement, she knew she should have snooped.

"So what's the big mystery?" she asked him.

"Never you mind. If I had wanted you to know, I would have asked _you_ to procure it rather than Cho."

"I don't like the look on your face."

"Believe me, you won't like what's in this package even more. I'm saving you from disappointment."

"More like you're saving yourself from a punch in the nose, I imagine."

Jane only grinned innocently in response.

They cuddled on the couch awhile after that, Jane asking questions about the final arrangements of the funeral—_his_ final arrangements. When he seemed satisfied that everything was set up as he'd prescribed, they both fell silent, then, as she hovered on the edge of sleep, Jane asked casually:

"So, did you see Kirkland today?"

"Hmm," she said noncommittally.

"Kirkland?" he repeated in amusement.

"No comment," she answered sleepily. "I'm saving you from disappointment," she mocked, and promptly drifted off.

Jane sat with her, listening to her deep breathing awhile before carrying her to the bedroom. He removed her clothing, then his own, and climbed into bed beside her. She nestled into his arms like a child, and he was sorely tempted to wake her, but they both needed their sleep. If everything went well tomorrow, they'd have a lifetime to celebrate.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Two hours before the funeral was set to begin, Jane parked the bicycle he'd "borrowed" near the back door of St. Mark's. It wouldn't do to be seen in his car, still parked at his burned out motel room, and he didn't want to risk being recognized by any cab drivers. Besides, it wasn't uncommon to see a man in his attire riding a bicycle in the old part of the city.

He turned the doorknob, just as a middle-aged nun opened it for him. She stepped back, surprise written on her face beneath her wimple.

"Oh!" she gasped. "You startled me. Father-?"

"Matteo," Jane answered, smoothing down his black priest's cassock after his ride, trying not to self-consciously adjust his traditional white collar. He had always hated wearing ties too. "I'm here for the Jane funeral."

"Aww. Welcome, Father Matteo," she said, stepping aside so he might enter. "I'm Sister Agnes. Were you from his parish, Father?"

"Yes. I need a while to compose myself and reflect before the funeral. I was told there was a lovely study on the second floor?"

"Yes, of course. Father Brown won't arrive until just in time for the service. You're welcome to rest in his office."

"Thank you, Sister."

She led him to the exact rooms he had desired, offering him some tea before she left, which he politely accepted. Alone in the priest's study, he found a mirror and checked that his black wig looked straight and natural. His blonde hair would have been a dead giveaway—no pun intended. He hadn't worn an elaborate disguise like this in years, but he knew the last thing his murderer, or anyone else would expect to see Patrick Jane wearing was priest's clothing. He smiled to himself at how angry and offended Teresa would be were she to see him now. He wasn't mocking her religion, really; he was trying to protect himself as well as the operation. Lisbon's sensitivity was why he'd had Cho procure the disguise for him.

He went to the curtained window and drew them an inch or two apart. As he had hoped, it looked out over the chapel. Already, flowers and potted plants filled the area around the dais, and he wondered whether these were really sent in his memory, or if Van Pelt had felt the need to supply them for appearance's sake. He rustled through the folds of his cassock to his slacks beneath, pulling from his pockets his compact binoculars, earpiece, and microphone for when the team arrived. Then he turned off the light in the room and settled with his tea to wait.

An hour later, Van Pelt and Lisbon came into the church, Van Pelt carrying what looked to be a large piece of cardboard and an easel. Both women were wearing black dresses. Grace set up the easel and placed upon it the blown up photo from his CBI ID card. He felt oddly touched by this, but he supposed that was customary when there was a closed casket, or no body.

He watched as Lisbon looked casually around the church, trying not to focus on the window where she knew he must be. She unobtrusively tapped her earpiece.

"Jane? You here?"

"Yes, Boss. I'm looking at you now. Nice dress."

She smirked. "Widow's weeds, as my mother called them."

"Well, you look fetching. Oh, and you too, Grace," Jane added, when he caught Van Pelt smiling, having heard their conversation in her own ear.

"Thanks, Jane."

Slowly the rest of the team showed up, the two men in their black suits looking appropriately solemn as they joined Lisbon on the front row. And then the other attendees began trickling in, arriving singularly or in small groups, their progress down the aisle accompanied by religious dirges from the organist at the front.

At first there were no real surprises—Bertram, along with most of the Sacramento CBI offices, showing up merely out of respect for a lost colleague (and because they got the afternoon off to attend). But then, Jane's face began to soften in wonder. First it was with the appearance of Sophie Miller, her pretty face blotchy from crying. She found Lisbon, hugging her as if they really knew one another. He watched through his binoculars as Lisbon looked taken aback at the other woman's grief.

Along with the minor surprises of J.J. LaRoche, Kirkland, and Alexa Shultz, came Virgil Minelli, who shook the hands of Cho and Rigsby, then hugged Lisbon and Van Pelt fiercely, the old man's eyes tearing up with dismay. Jane could clearly hear his conversation with Lisbon through his earpiece.

"Oh, Teresa. I knew it would come to this. He would push someone too far, or it would be Red John. Poor Jane. I hope he's at peace now."

"I hope so too, Virgil," said Lisbon, squeezing his hands.

It was like twisting the knife, and Jane felt his own eyes watering as it began to dawn on him that he was actually…loved, and by more people than just Lisbon. Minelli's girlfriend, May, led the distraught man to a second row pew, where he continued to weep into his hands.

"I don't know if I can do this, Teresa," came Jane's broken words in her ear. She was equally distressed.

"Just say the word, Jane. We'll call this whole thing off. Come down here and be with them, comfort them, take away their sadness. We'd call it a miracle."

He was tempted to do just that, especially with the arrival of the drag queens from the cabaret he'd met several months before—led by the statuesque Glenda, and the more demure Fifi Nix. They were dressed in the height of funeral chic, complete with feather-laden hats, their gloved hands daintily dabbing their eyes beneath black lace veils.

"I—I can't," he said, swallowing hard. "We'd be back at square one."

And still they came, one after another, appearing like ghosts of his mostly haunted Christmases past. Madeline Hightower, her usual stoicism obviously shaken by his passing. Beth Flint, a former client whose son he had found and saved, who still believe he had a psychic gift, and other familiar faces-loved ones of murder victims in cases he'd solved over the years.

But he was most floored by the next arrivals. From the back of the room entered the tentative figures of Pete and Sam, their carney rags replaced by more subdued costumes in a rare show of formality. They were a reminder of the good times with Angela, in the early days of their relationship and marriage. The fact that they too looked stricken by his death brought him a pain so sharp he nearly doubled over with it.

"This was all so sudden," were the words he heard from many via the team's microphones in their sleeves.

"What a tragedy—first his wife and child, now him. So very sad…"

He was wiping his eyes when the most unexpected guest of all made his grand entrance—Bret Stiles. Escorting him were two of his Visualize cronies, but he sat like a king on the front row.

"Any alarms going off?" said Cho in his ear.

Jane tried to analyze his emotions. Bret Stiles. A shady character with ties to Red John. What the hell was he doing here?

"Nothing clear yet. I'm watching though. No one looks suspicious, but wait—" He focused his binoculars. "Who's that woman that just came in with the opaque veil on?"

Cho turned in his seat, noticing the mysterious woman seated in the very back. "I'll check it out," said Cho.

"Don't spook her," said Jane. His first thought was Lorelei, or maybe even Erica, but both of them would be taking a huge risk attending a funeral with a room full of law enforcement types.

Cho rose, nodding to Rigsby and Lisbon before walking casually toward the back of the church. By then, it was standing room only, and Jane was overwhelmed that he had somehow touched so many, mostly, it seemed, in a positive way. Cho was waylaid by the appearance of Agent Tamsyn Wade, the woman from the Gang Division who'd recently divided the agent's attention from the Serious Crimes Unit.

"I'm sorry for the loss to your team," she was saying.

"Yeah, thanks."

Cho was trying to be polite, but his eyes kept straying to the mystery woman. At that moment, the organ music ceased, and Father Brown went to the pulpit. The service was beginning, and Cho nodded to Wade before returning to his seat, glancing briefly up at Jane's window with an apologetic shrug.

"Friends," the priest was saying. "We come together today to mourn the loss of Patrick Alexander Jane. Though I didn't know him, this overflowing chapel is a testament of how much people thought of him. I'm told by his colleague, Teresa Lisbon, that Patrick wasn't a religious man. Indeed, he'd had much pain and heartache in his life, which might have been why he wavered in his faith. We can all only hope that in the end, he found Our Lord once more...Now, let us read from the book of Lamentations…"

While the priest continued, Jane scanned the room again, but his eyes kept returning to the woman in the back pew. There was something about her that seemed vaguely familiar—maybe it was her height, or her build, or just an air about her. From that distance, however, it was difficult to tell, and he didn't want to frighten her away by drawing attention to her in the middle of the service.

But then his gaze was drawn to the ascending of Cho to the pulpit. Jane had just been kidding about asking the succinct agent to give his eulogy, but apparently Lisbon had taken him at his word. Jane watched, fascinated, as Cho reached into his inside breast pocket and retrieved a small stack of note cards. Jane smiled in anticipation.

"Patrick Jane was a selfish, lying, obsessive bastard," he began. Many in the church gasped, but several more chuckled at this very accurate characterization, including Jane, himself. "Either you loved the guy, or you hated him; there was no middle ground where Jane was concerned. Generally, I would count myself among the former, although at times maybe the latter was more accurate." Cho looked up from his cards to find his audience in complete agreement, especially Lisbon, who wore a small smile of commiseration.

"At any rate, wherever he is now, I'm sure he's laughing at this religious spectacle, how he had you all fooled, even in the end. Somewhere above us, he's planning a dramatic reveal, and everything will fall into place. We will be in awe of his insight and brilliance. I hope that, wherever Jane is, he realizes how hard this has been on everybody, that writing eulogies in particular is a pain in the uh, _behind_." Cho looked heavenward. "And if you're listening, Jane, I know my pain and suffering would be eased considerably if you could find a way to send me seats on the fifty yard line at a Raiders game. Rest in peace, buddy."

"I'll do what I can," said Jane dryly in Cho's ear.

Then Rigsby rose and stood before them, and, after a brief prologue by the organist, began to sing in a voice rich and pure:

_Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound, _

_That saved a wretch like me…_

Afterwards, there wasn't a dry eye in the house, including Jane's. The priest rose again to speak, and Jane trained his binoculars on the spot where the mystery woman had been sitting. She was gone! Careful not to rustle the curtains too much, he frantically scanned the pews in search of her.

All at once, the study became brighter, and Jane lowered his binoculars, momentarily disoriented. His first thought was that it was Sister Agnes; that is, until he felt the cold metal of a gun pressed to his neck.

"Forgive me, Father," said a familiar voice. "For I have sinned."

Still facing the window, Jane slowly raised his hands.

"Well, hello…Agent Darcy."

A/N: So, are you surprised? There will be more to this confrontation in the next chapter. All will be revealed and explained, I promise.

I hope I didn't offend anyone in my characterization of a Catholic service. I'm sure I made some mistakes, but it was all with good intentions and with no desire to insult or offend the Catholic faith. I hope you forgive me and grant me poetic license here. Thanks for your patience and understanding.


	7. Conclusion

A/N: I was so gratified that I took so many of you by surprise with my reveal of Darcy. Now, I suppose I need to explain a few things…

**Chapter 7: Conclusion **_**(Yes, you read that right!)**_

Agent Susan Darcy reached over to Jane's ear and yanked out his earpiece, along with the attached microphone he hadn't bothered threading through his priest's cassock. He heard rather than saw her smash the expensive equipment beneath her sensible black pump.

"Lisbon's not going to like that," said Jane blandly, but his mind was racing. _Susan Darcy. _Last he'd heard, she'd suffered an emotional breakdown after she accidentally killed Luther Wainwright. He'd have to tread very carefully here.

"Of course, Lisbon _would_ be aware of your current fraudulent scheme," said Darcy, annoyed. "Your loyal soldiers are at it once again, helping you perpetrate yet another fraud upon the government."

"Attempted murder sort of trumps fraud, don't you think?"

The gun pressed even harder into his neck. He'd angered her.

"No less than you deserve, Patrick."

Jane slowly waved his upraised hands. "You mind if I turn around and face my accuser," he asked calmly, already moving without her permission. She let him, backing up a step to accommodate his new position.

"Aw, that's better. Good to see you again, Susan. Too bad it's under such…unfortunate circumstances." He smiled wryly. "Black does suit you, though."

The gun, fitted with its silencer, was still trained at his head as Darcy stood before him, black veil pulled back onto her hat so he could clearly see her strained face. She was much changed from the beautiful woman he'd once known. It was like she'd aged ten years in six months.

"I'm afraid that famous Jane charm isn't going to work this time. I told you I was through playing with you. I hope I've made you feel the paranoia, wondering if you might be killed at any moment. The fear of having no control over your life, that you were totally at the mercy of a deranged killer. I bet that's how Luther Wainwright felt in his last moments with Red John," she finished softly, and Jane could tell she was remembering the horror she'd felt when she'd opened that limousine door to find that she'd killed the young leader of the Serious Crimes Unit.

"So that's it. You blame me for Luther's death. I'll share in some of the responsibility for that, I suppose. But Red John is the real villain here, not me. And certainly not you. You were a victim in this just as much as Luther."

Darcy's hand wavered a bit, but she seemed to be ignoring him. "You know how many of my bullets they pulled out of him? Five. He was just a kid, Jane, and your unwillingness to work with the FBI on this, your goddamn vigilante scheme is what led that bastard to put Luther in that limousine. So yeah, I blame you. I'm still not sure that you aren't working with Red John somehow."

Jane went on the defensive. "Red John killed my family, Susan. This feeling you have about Luther, the guilt that's been tearing you up inside for months—I've been going through that for ten years. You didn't need to torment me with attempted murder to make me feel any more paranoid or helpless than I already do every day. You've only made things worse for yourself, I'm afraid."

Darcy shook her head. He was getting to her. But she was on a mission here, and a good agent never gave up in the middle of a mission. She actually smiled now.

"I knew you weren't dead, by the way. After I pushed you over the railing."

Jane's eyes widened in genuine surprise. "_You_ pushed me?" He shook his head, disappointed in his lack of perception. "I could have sworn it was a man."

Her smile only grew. "I can bench press more than most of the men in my unit," she said proudly. "Men tend to underestimate women. It works to our advantage."

"So, how did you know I wasn't at the bottom of Lake Tahoe?" Jane asked, curious in spite of the danger he was in. Also, if he kept her talking, maybe he'd get lucky and someone would come along and rescue him. Maybe Lisbon and the team would wonder why he wasn't talking to them through his microphone. He could hear the organist playing another hymn on the other side of the window, so his funeral was still in full swing.

"I know Lisbon-know her type, anyway," Darcy replied. "She wouldn't have called off the search so soon, wouldn't have thrown this hasty funeral until she had a body to bury. Besides, she's obviously in love with you, so that in itself wouldn't have allowed her to give up."

He didn't deny the logic of her reasoning.

"So I came to your funeral to see what was really going on, suspecting that this was just another scam, and I simply…observed. Oh, your colleagues are very good. They look suitably sullen and teary-eyed. And I'm sure no one else noticed how they occasionally glanced up at this window, despite their best efforts. When I saw Rigsby talking into his sleeve, I knew you must be around here somewhere. I was right; you didn't fool me this time."

"Congratulations," he said softly. "So, now what? Come to finish the job? You don't have to do this, you know. Leave now. Stop trying to kill me and I swear I won't tell anyone about our conversation. Go back to your very promising career and we'll never speak of this again."

She laughed without humor. "Career? What career? I shot a unit director from the CBI. I spent a month in a mental facility. No one in government or law enforcement will allow me to work in the field ever again. So I'm thinking, I don't have much to lose here. I'll simply shoot you and prevent you from ruining someone else's life—maybe even Lisbon's."

"Susan, think about-"

"And if I'm right about you," she interrupted, her finger moving to the trigger. "You are working for Red John anyway. Hell, maybe you _are_ Red John. In that case, I'd be doing the world a favor too."

"Please," he began, and as he looked down the barrel of Agent Darcy's gun, his last thoughts were of Teresa, and the real funeral she would attend. But then the lights went off, and they were plunged into darkness. Jane dropped instinctively just before he heard a muffled bullet zing past him and into a wall somewhere behind him. Then he heard a click, a gasp, and a sickening gurgling sound.

Jane crawled to where he remembered there was a wingback chair, accidentally jabbing his face into its arm in the pitch-blackness before hiding behind it. Outside the window, the electric organ had stopped, and there was the distant murmur of a discombobulated crowd. The electricity must have been thrown for the entire church. He knew there were enough windows and candles in the church to give the chapel plenty of light, but upstairs, behind the dark red curtain, Jane could see nothing.

It was then that Jane sensed another presence in the study, but he was too frightened to say anything lest he give his location away. As his eyes adjusted, he strained to see into the darkness, and fancied he could just make out the shadowed outline of a figure, moving quickly about the room. He had the sickening feeling it wasn't Darcy. His instincts were confirmed when the voice from his every nightmare spoke his name.

"Patrick," said Red John. "I'm so relieved to know you aren't really dead."

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

In the chapel, Father Brown finished his final words without benefit of a microphone, giving the closing benediction while Cho turned in his pew to look back at the place where the mystery woman had once sat. He reached over and gently touched Lisbon's hand, who seemed was lost in the priest's comforting prayer.

She opened her eyes and looked at him, and he tapped his earpiece and shook his head. She tried her own, but there was nothing coming through from Jane. The prayer ended, and the attendees rose to their feet, milling about in the dimness. A few came by to thank Lisbon, and to express their condolences over her loss. She smiled, but her eyes kept straying to the dark room above them.

A bad feeling swept over her, especially when Cho leaned down to whisper near her ear.

"Jane thought he spied a suspect. She was sitting in the back pew, but now she's gone."

"Did you recognize her?" she whispered back.

"No."

Lisbon caught the eyes of Rigsby and Van Pelt, inclining her head to indicate that they should follow Cho. She tried to work her way toward the back of the church, but she kept getting waylaid by Jane's old friends and colleagues.

As she accepted condolences from Bertram, then Alexa Shultz, her thoughts were with Jane. If she didn't hear from him in exactly one minute, she was going to fain overwhelming grief and flee the chapel.

"Are you all right, Agent Lisbon?" asked the kindly voice of Bret Stiles.

"Mr. Stiles," she said, "how good of you to come." She couldn't help the cynicism in her voice; Stiles always seemed to have some unfathomable ulterior motive. He took her cold hand in his dry, warm one.

"Patrick held a special place in my heart. I wouldn't have missed this." She looked up at the older man, put off as usual by the intensity of his blue eyes, how they seemed so full of secrets.

"I'm sure he would have been…surprised at your appearance."

Stiles smiled wryly. "Suspicious, you mean. I sense your skepticism, but let me assure you, I really did come here to pay my respects."

"Well, thank you then. Now, if you'll excuse me, Mr. Stiles…"

She tried to politely extricate herself, but as she moved to leave, Stiles firmly held her hand, forcing her to look back up at him in annoyance.

"Be careful of this game you're playing," he murmured. "Not everyone has my sense of humor."

She paled at his knowing gaze, but managed to pull her hand free, a new sense of urgency pushing her onward. Clearly, Stiles was giving her a warning.

"My condolences, Agent Lisbon," she heard Bret Stiles call after her, and then she was desperately moving through the crowd, ignoring the well-wishers as she made her way to the door to the vestibule.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"Don't be frightened, Patrick," said Red John, in that oddly high-pitched voice of his. As always, Jane had the sense he was trying to mask his real one. "Why would I kill you after I just killed Agent Darcy to save you?"

Jane swallowed, his fears confirmed. "You didn't have to kill her," he said lamely. His voice didn't sound like his own, either, but he could barely hear it anyway over the pounding of his heart.

"It was either your life or hers; once again, I chose yours. I apologize for putting you in this predicament with her in the first place. I do feel partly responsible. But let this be a lesson to you, Patrick. Obsession with revenge only leads to death."

"Yes," said Jane bravely, "I'm hoping it will lead to yours one day."

The serial killer chuckled. "That may well be, Patrick. But not today."

Jane heard the sound of a hand on a doorknob.

"Wait!" Jane cried, rising to his feet. "I'd like to talk to you some more."

"I'm flattered, Patrick, but I do have to go. Oh…Lorelei was sorry she couldn't attend your funeral, but she's sort of on the lam these days. She was truly saddened by the news of your death."

"You have Lorelei?" he said in surprise.

"You thought she wouldn't come back to me? That your lies and manipulation would make her think the worst? When will you realize, my old friend, that the only way to true happiness is through me. Lorelei has learned this; perhaps someday, you too will see the light. Good-bye, Patrick. Until we meet again…"

"No!" Jane said, moving blindly around the chair and sprinting across the small space toward the door. Unfortunately, he tripped over what he sickly realized could only be poor Susan's dead body. He landed with a _hmph_ of expelled air on the carpeted floor.

"I do like your ironic new vocation, by the way," said Red John from the doorway, no doubt referring to his priest's garb. "Right idea, wrong cause."

From his place on the floor, Jane could just see the outline of a tall, dark figure in the slightly lighter hallway, but then the door closed again with a click of finality. Jane stumbled to his feet, his hand finding the doorknob that Red John himself had just grasped. He turned it, but found it to be locked. He fumbled for the light switch, frustrated to find that of course, the electricity was still off. He felt the smooth surface of the doorknob and the casing around it, then remembered he'd noted earlier when Sister Agnes had let him in that there was only one way to access the lock—from the outside.

"Dammit!"

Red John was getting away.

He hastened to the window overlooking the chapel, careful to avoid Darcy. Drawing back the curtains, he pounded on the window with the palms of his hands.

"Lisbon!"

All eyes rose to see a priest in a black cassock, dark hair askew, yelling like a madman. A few found him to look vaguely familiar. A few more recognized him immediately. It would seem that Patrick Jane was not dead, after all.

"That son of a bitch!" said Bertram, heedless of their holy location. The CBI Director looked around for Lisbon and her team, but they had conveniently disappeared. Bertram sent his assistant, Drew Yost, to find out what was going on, and to determine why, exactly, Jane had chosen to embarrass him again so publicly.

Cho, Rigsby, and Van Pelt arrived at Father Brown's study just as Jane was yelling for Lisbon. They'd spent a few minutes looking for the woman Cho and Jane had seen, but she was nowhere to be found. In the dark hallway, Van Pelt shone a small flashlight she kept in her purse for just such emergencies.

"Jane!" said Cho. "You okay in there?"

"I'm locked in!" answered Jane frantically from the other side of the door. "Did you see anybody in the hallway?"

"What? No."

The trio heard a few choice profanities rarely spoken by Jane, then:

"Well, get me the hell out of here. Red John locked me in!"

The trio looked at one another in the dimness.

"Stand back," called Rigsby. On his second kick, the door swung violently into the room.

Van Pelt shone her flashlight on the face of a near-hysterical Jane, who brushed past them to run down the hall toward the back way he had come in earlier.

"He probably went this way," he called over his shoulder. The two men followed, but Van Pelt gasped as her light fell on the body of Susan Darcy.

"Oh, my God."

She rushed to the woman's side, horrified at the dark liquid pooling around her on the floor, some still seeping out of her neatly slit throat. She felt for a pulse, but there was none. The woman was already dead.

"Jane!"

Lisbon stood in the doorway, breathing heavily. Van Pelt pointed her light toward her team leader.

"No, Boss. It's just me. Jane and the guys went after Red John."

"Red John?" Lisbon replied in astonishment. She joined Van Pelt in the study.

"It's Darcy," said Van Pelt, directing the beam of light on the body again. "She's dead."

Somewhere, someone had found the church's old breaker box and switched the electricity back on. Lisbon and Van Pelt blinked in the sudden brightness, then the women gasped together as they saw the familiar gruesome smile upon the wall. No doubt now that Red John had been here.

Xxxxxxxxxxxx

Later, Jane and Lisbon sat on the front pew of St. Mark's Church, admiring the profusion of the plants and flowers surrounding the dais. On the floor beside him was a small arrangement of lilies. He read the card for the third time.

_Say hello to Angie and Charlotte for me._

_D._

"Danny," Jane said wistfully. "My brother-in-law. Guess he was afraid to come with all the legal types congregating." He was still wanted by the police after his last visit.

Lisbon reached for Jane's hand. "I'm sure he'll be glad you're not really dead."

He looked around the empty church. "Unlike the attendees of my most recent funeral," he said dryly.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

When Jane, Cho and Rigsby had exited the rear of the church earlier, they'd met a parking lot full of cars, but no sign of anyone departing. Everyone who had parked there had entered via the church's front doors, and were likely leaving the same way. The three of them went from car to car, peaking inside and underneath, but to no avail. Not surprisingly, the killer had disappeared without a trace. There would be no parking lot security cameras to access either—the church had none.

"Maybe we can pick up something from the surrounding area," said Rigsby optimistically.

"Maybe," said Jane, knowing in his gut just how unlikely that would be.

Drew Yost had met them in the priest's study, shaking his head in shock and disgust as he surveyed the crime scene.

"Did you do this?" he demanded of Jane as he looked down at the blood soaked carpet.

"No, you idiot. It was…Red…John." Jane halted when he saw the smiley face for the first time, and his heart seemed to stop as well. Red John had painted the macabre picture while Jane had been cowering behind a chair.

Lisbon came to him, taking both his hands. He was white as a sheet. "Are you okay? Did he hurt you?"

"No." He looked down at Darcy's still form. "Susan was the one trying to kill me. She blamed me for Wainwright's death."

"What?" chorused the others in the room. Jane sighed, running his hands through his blond hair, having dispensed with the silly wig in the parking lot.

"You may as well call Bertram for this. I really don't want to explain myself twice."

Yost brought out his cell phone. "You're damn right I'm calling him. And why, may I ask, are you dressed like a priest?"

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Now, sitting with Lisbon in the empty church, Jane at last allowed himself a sigh of relief.

The CSU had finished their job in Father Brown's study, and the body of Susan Darcy had been taken to the morgue. Bertram had been furious of course, along with Alexis Shultz and the rest of the FBI contingent. (Father Brown was none to happy either.) It would seem that it would be easier to believe what Jane had told them, rather than risk another drawn-out internal affairs investigation which would invariably lead them back to the same place: a cover-up to save face.

Without a mutually agreed upon story, the FBI would have to explain why one of their own, recently released from the psych ward, would have stalked and attempted to kill a valued consultant with the CBI. Jane also looked suspicious, since he was the only living witness to Red John's presence at all, but DNA and ballistics tests would certainly clear him, or at the very least, leave his involvement in the murder on the dubious side at best. Plus, there were witnesses to say the door to the priest's study was locked from the outside. It also didn't look good that a CBI employee (with the unsubstantiated help from the SCU team) had faked his own death, or that he'd impersonated a priest.

There was little doubt then, after Bertram and Shultz met that night, that the official word out of both bureaus would be that Jane and the team, in conjunction with the FBI, had tried to flush out Red John by faking his death after the serial killer had stepped up his pursuit of Jane. The end result, however, was the unfortunate death of one of the FBI's best agents (recently returned from personal leave). Darcy would be given an honorable burial, no one the wiser. Jane was fine with that—not that there had been any other choice.

"It was a nice funeral," Jane said to Lisbon. "Thank you. I had no idea so many people would come." He really was in awe of that aspect of the ruse.

Lisbon squeezed his hand. "Of course they would. You've helped a lot of people over the years."

"Angered just as many," Jane said, remembering again the aggrieved Agent Darcy. "Poor Susan. I completely understood what she was going through. If Red John hadn't have interfered, I might have been able to help her."

"She shot at you right before he killed her, though. I wouldn't have wished her dead, but I'm certainly glad she missed."

"Well, I'm doubtful that my next funeral will be as well attended. People will think I'm the consultant who cried wolf."

"Not many people get to see their own funerals, Jane. You could learn something from that. I hope it makes you feel better about yourself, lets you see what a truly amazing person you are, even though you do tend to annoy and bedevil at times…"

Jane grinned. "Oh, really?" He turned to her, allowing his love to show unabashedly in his eyes. "Do I annoy and bedevil you?"

She smiled back. "On a daily basis, but I wouldn't have you any other way." Her smiled dimmed suddenly, and she looked wistfully at the dais again.

"It was hard pretending, wasn't it?" he asked. "I'm sorry."

"It's not something I want go through again anytime soon."

"Me neither."

He found her mouth and kissed her, the emotional and physical upheaval of the day draining away as he found solace in her soft lips, her warm mouth.

Her hands went up to encircle his neck, but when she felt the strangeness of his Roman priest's collar, she pulled abruptly away, her eyes going uneasily to the statue of Jesus on the cross.

"This is wrong in so many ways," she said breathlessly against his chest. "I feel like I'm in a low-budget version of _The Thorn Birds._"

"Oh," he said with a laugh, touching the white tab at his throat. "Sorry to offend your Catholic sensibilities. Was there something you'd like to confess to me, my child?" he asked with mock piety, eyes sparkling wickedly. "I think the confessional is free."

"You're terrible," she said, but kissed him again lightly. She stood and looked at the flora and fauna before them. "What are we going to do with these?"

"Send them to hospitals and nursing homes," he said, waving his hand dismissively.

She glanced at him, a bit of mischief of her own in her eyes. "Even that one?" she said, pointing to the ostentatious wreath on a stand, dwarfing all the rest of the more tasteful arrangements.

"Who sent it?" asked Jane, suddenly curious.

"Walter Mashburn," she replied.

"Really?" He said, flattered.

"Yes. Would you like to hear what the card said?" She produced it from her décolletage, and Jane's eyes narrowed. She cleared her throat and focused on her former lover's words.

"It's actually addressed to me," she prefaced. "'Teresa: So sad to hear of Patrick's tragic passing. Sorry I couldn't be there for the funeral. Are you free for dinner when I'm in town next week? Love, Walter.'"

"What?"

She handed the card to him, and she watched in amusement as he read it.

"That bastard," Jane said, and chuckled in disbelief, but then he quickly sobered. It was a little disconcerting to realize that were he to die, there would be a line of men just waiting to take his place beside her. Mashburn. Mancini. Kirkland. It was worth remembering that.

He watched as his savior knelt briefly before the statue of hers, crossing herself before turning to back to him with a dimpled smile.

He gallantly offered his arm to her, and they began walking toward the back of the church, their footsteps echoing throughout the empty chapel, candles flickering as they passed.

"I guess you'd better stay out of trouble now," she told him, leaning her head on his shoulder. "By my count, I believe you've officially run out of lives..."

_**Epilogue to follow**_…

A/N: Writing action scenes are by far the most difficult. I hope my hard work paid off. I'm anxious to hear your thoughts. Yes, one more chapter (the Epilogue) to go. Thank you for reading.


	8. Epilogue

A/N: Well, here is the end of this little tale. I hope you liked it. It certainly helped me pass the time waiting for new episodes over the holidays. Thanks to all who have read and/or reviewed. I'm really humbled by your enthusiasm.

**Epilogue**

"See," said Jane, panting into the back of Lisbon's damp neck, "I told you Latin was a beautiful language."

Lisbon could only give a small grunt of agreement, still shaken to her core by their passion. When the man was right, he was right.

It was two days after the funeral, two days after the scandalous allegations by the media that once again, the FBI and CBI were involved in a cover-up, and that yet another government agent had been murdered by Red John. This cover up was particularly cruel, allowing the public to believe that a beloved (if the funeral turnout could be believed) consultant for the CBI had been tragically killed. Still, the bureaus stood by their agreed upon story that Jane's faked death had been to flush out Red John. Jane only wished he had thought of that.

After threats from Bertram, Jane agreed to make a statement of apology for his deception at the joint press conference, although Lisbon had to pull him away from the microphone when he made a nasty jab at the FBI regarding their handling of Lorelei Martins.

When he'd caught sight of Kirkland in the crowd, Jane had purposefully pulled Lisbon to his side and put a possessive arm around her waist. Kirkland had raised an eyebrow, but Jane was fairly certain he'd gotten the message as the cameras flashed around them. Lisbon, on the other hand, had to put her hand in her pocket to keep from punching Jane, who'd agreed to keep their relationship discreet.

Now, she fervently hoped, perhaps things could return to normal—or as normal as it could be with Patrick Jane in her bed. He'd continued to stay with her, even though he could have easily found another dive motel room as was his wont. Both of them had been quite comfortable with the new arrangement this far, but Lisbon found the need once more to define things. It was part of being in law enforcement, she supposed.

When he could move again, Jane rolled from atop Lisbon's back, gathering her against his side and kissing her temple affectionately.

"Jane," she began tentatively.

"Hm?"

"I was thinking…"

"Oh, boy. When a woman says that, you know a man is going to have to do something like take out the trash or buy a new washing machine."

"Are you finished?" she asked, annoyed.

He grinned, still taking great pleasure in teasing her. "Sorry. By all means, continue."

Lisbon's heart rate increased, and she tensed in his arms. Jane realized immediately that something serious was about to go down. He turned to face her.

"Hey," he said, depositing a stray chestnut lock behind her ear. "What's going on in that energetic brain of yours?"

She took a deep breath. _What the hell. Can't hurt to ask._

"What would you think about…living here with me? I mean, if you wanted to. No pressure or anything…"

Her anxiety was adorable, he thought, and he was extremely touched that she would ask. This was a huge step for both of them, but despite having deceived old friends to the point of making them enemies, and losing another victim to Red John, he was happier than he had been in a decade—that was no exaggeration. He felt ready for this. She would have to learn patience with him, because he still would likely have some dark days ahead, but loving her was too addictive for him to stop now. And Jane was nothing if not obsessive.

It wasn't like everyone didn't already know or suspect at the CBI, either. Jane had no doubt their working relationship would continue as before, and it pleased him to no end that she seemed to think living together was a good idea. He still couldn't resist teasing her a bit more, however.

"I don't know, Lisbon," he said. "I mean, there's your snoring to consider. And you could really use a bigger bed. Then there's the fact that you're only a so-so cook. Your tea is good—that's a plus. And the sex, well, you have a long way to go to totally satiate my lust—"

"I take it back," she interrupted in mock exasperation; she knew by now when she was being conned by Patrick Jane. "I mean, now that you mentioned it, the situation wouldn't be at all ideal, what with the tossing and the turning, and the stealing of the covers. And if you leave the damn toilet seat up one more time, I swear I'll drown you in the bowl with my bare hands. And you're right about the sex—one minute I'm completely satisfied, the next, well, I just I need you again. It's infuriating."

They looked at one another, smiling softly, their eyes sparkling with mirth. He closed his eyes and sweetly kissed her.

"Thank you for inviting me, Lisbon," he told her formally. "I'd be honored to share your home."

"I'm glad," she said with a dimpled smile, kissing him again to seal the deal. A few minutes later, she pulled gently away. "Is my cooking really that bad?" she asked him seriously.

He shrugged. "Nothing we can't work on." She swatted his arm and he gasped at the quick, sharp sting.

"Did I mention that the toilet seat's a deal breaker?"

"Okay, little rocket. Put away that red glare of yours."

She nestled again into the warmth of his arms. "You really are an ass, you know that?" she said affectionately. He grinned.

"I love you too, Teresa." He was quiet a moment, but he knew she wasn't asleep yet. "By the way, I was really disappointed there were no bagpipes at my funeral."

She sighed, closing her eyes contentedly. "Maybe next time."

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The next morning, Jane found a brown paper sack on his seldom-used desk in the CBI bullpen. He opened it curiously, and let out a cry fraught with surprise and happiness. He pulled out the brown, size 14 Oxford shoe, a smile stretching from ear to ear. He held it up like he'd just caught a ten pound bass, the evidence tag hanging from the shoelace eyelet like a fisherman's lure. His gaze flew gratefully to Cho, who was busy ignoring him. Rigsby glanced up from his computer, and shook his head with a small smile. Van Pelt chuckled and congratulated him on his reunion.

He supposed their reactions all meant they had forgiven him once more, had welcomed him back into the fold. Of course, the Raiders tickets seemed to smooth things over considerably with the men. Jane went to his desk and withdrew the shoe's mate from a drawer, then sat on his equally beloved couch. He'd been wearing the black shoes he'd bought to complete his priest's costume, and they'd been on the tight side and squeaked a little when he walked. It had been frustrating that he'd been unable to sneak up on someone…or sneak away. In keen anticipation, he untied and slipped off the black shoes, but looked up to see that Lisbon had entered the bullpen.

"Hey guys, we're up," she said. Her team instantly began switching off computers and grabbing coats and guns.

Jane gave her his most radiant smile, to which she blushed a little and grinned as she saw what he was doing.

"Come on, Mr. Rogers," she told him wryly. "We've got a case to solve."

"Yes, Boss," he said with a wink, then put on his favorite shoes, tying them with a flourish. He stood, breathing in as if he were standing in the middle of a mountain forest instead of a musty old office building.

"It's a beautiful day, isn't it, Lisbon?"

**THE END**

A/N: So, there it is. I'm not sure what my next story will be, but I have a few ideas running through my crazy head. In the meantime, I still have the epilogue to "Teresa" to write, and a tag after this Sunday's (hopefully) epic episode. Thanks again for your continued support of my writing.


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